


If We Stand, If We Fall

by allofmyshit



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - How to Train Your Dragon, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Amputee!Marco, Crossover, M/M, You dont need to have watched the movies but you'll probably understand it better, i guess?, idk its basically just everyone you love flying around on dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:34:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 164,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4618701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofmyshit/pseuds/allofmyshit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Marco returned on the back of a Night Fury, people called it a blessing.  </p><p>He knows he should be happy here.  He's been told so many times how incredible it is that he hadn't died out in the stormy weather.  Others, he's been told, hadn't returned – he was lucky.  He has friends, he has a family, he has a job, all of which he loves very much.  A restless heart doesn't fare well caged, but he convinces himself that Berk is where he's happiest.  </p><p>All that changes when he meets the boy that didn't come back at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is Berk

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been a plot bunny since like forever, but I'm kind of nervous about putting it out here??? I don't know, I worked hard and I hope you like it!!!
> 
> Special thanks to [horsefacedbodt](http://horsefacedbodt.tumblr.com/)! This wouldn't be possible without her.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Inn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXV2fCimTsE) um ermar, upp hryggjarsúluna  
>  Yfir skóg, flæðir niður brekkuna  
> Allt upp í loft! Ég mun aldrei gleyma!  
> Því ég mun aldrei!  
>   
> Hleypur um, rífur, leysir flækjurnar  
> (Upp með rótum) Með blik í augum!  
> Stórmerki, undur, brjótum bein í sundur!  
>   
> Let yourself... go (Oh Oh Oh)  
> Let yourself... go (Oh Oh Oh)  
> 

When I came back, people said it was a miracle. 

Berk is a dreary, primitive place filled with drearier, even more primitive people.  That didn’t change just because we picked up some new dragons along the way.  People around here _aren’t_ gifted intellectually. 

Peglegs and eyepatches are the extents of our medical prowess.  If you’ve got a fever, you swaddle yourself in clothes that aren’t completely damp and hope for the best.  Open wounds are cleaned with rags that maybe aren’t so dirty and then left to scab.  When you see a friend torn off of their mount by a dragon and disappear… well, you don’t look too hard into it. 

It’s not like they would’ve missed me too much, either.  I’d been stuck in my shell, unable to handle ferocious dragons with meek hands.  So when a Scauldron came out of nowhere and knocked me from the a dragon’s back, sending me plummeting down into a turbulent ocean, people mourned but didn’t bother to look. 

I was probably dead.  If I wasn’t, I would be soon, and there was nothing they could do about it. 

Someone started a rumor that they’d seen the dragon tear me in half on the way down.  I was honored because of it.  The name “Marco Bodt” went down in a blaze of glory at my funeral. 

When I came back, people were astonished.  It’s not that I just disappeared a squeamish kid and came back stronger than ever before.  I came back with only one arm.  I’d lost everything past my shoulder on my right side, and I’d still managed to survive. 

I wasn’t just honored because of that.  I was revered. 

Things changed afterwards.  My own experiences gave my confidence, gave me stature.  I met more people, interesting people, and carried on conversations I’d never had dreamed of before.  Somewhere along the line, I decided that I’d gone through too much to be an antisocial dork any longer. 

And people were interested in me, too.  Not much happens on this island, and not much has happened since Hanji arrived, so I was a commodity.  My voice was valued in discussion for a change – I didn’t let my amputation limit me, not after the hell I’d gone through to survive.    

Of course, I didn’t last eight months _alone_ in a sea as treacherous as the ones surrounding.  I’d have starved or never found my way back if I’d been alone.  The seas are too dangerous, the dragons too eager to devour weak prey.  Orochi is the reason I walk today.    

Flying back on the wings of a mysterious Night Fury was probably also a reason for my burst in popularity.

Up until that point, the only Night Fury around was Hanji’s Sonny, and he’d died two years before I even started Dragon Training.  My new dragon was awed and feared, held in comparison to the memories of its noble forebear.  Hanji had been less impressed, yet had hardly left Orochi’s side once we arrived, measuring proportions and wingspans.    

Just like me, he slotted easily into regular life.  Quietly, I’d been astonished by his ease to socialize with the village’s other dragons.  After being alone likely long before he stumbled across me, broken and mangled on the rocks, who would’ve thought he’d be so social?

When I first came back, people said I was lucky.  They said I was lucky to come back at all, lucky that Orochi hadn’t just eaten me.  Said I could’ve ended up like “Jean Kirschtein” or any of the other countless warriors lost at sea.  They said that in situations like mine, most people don’t survive with even most of their body intact. 

I didn’t understand what they meant about my scrape with death until it happened again.

* * *

 

“No, stop!” I shout down through the iron bars of the cage, watching from above, unable to help.  “Mina – what are you doing, Mina?”

The girl, a frightened twelve-year-old absolutely swallowed in her helmet, wheels around looks up at me, stuttering.  _Mistake,_ I tsk internally, glancing towards the hissing Hobblegrunt now sidling closer while she's focused elsewhere. 

“Thomas!” I snap, and he jumps between them, locking eyes with the dragon. It swivels its head around and fixates on its new target.

Satisfied, I turn my attention back to my other student.  “We’ve talked about this, Mina,” I remind her, careful not to sound patronizing – Thor knows I had it awful when I was her age.  “Remember. No matter what happens, don’t take your eyes off the dragon.”

“R-right!” she stutters, breaking a nervous smile.  “Can I, um, try again?” 

I swing my gaze back and forth between the Hobblegrunt and Mina, licking at my lips.  “You know what, Mina?  I’m not seeing any chemistry between the two of you.  Why don’t you step out of the ring and let Thomas try?”

Her shoulders slump, but she nods glumly and plods towards the grate.  Squawking, the Hobblegrunt lifts its head eagerly at the lifting gate, but Thomas manuvers himself between the dragon and its escape, scowling blackly.  I watch the pair of them carefully; the Hobblegrunt studies Thomas as carefully as I do, and it doesn't escape my notice. 

“Hey, buddy!” I call down to him.  Thomas cocks his head to let me know he’s listening.  “You’ve got her attention, can you tell?”

“Yeah!”  Thomas nods excitedly.  “Does that mean we’re bonding?  What do I do now?”

“Slow down, sport.”  My heart warms at his visible chagrin.  “It’s a huge improvement, but just because she’s listening to you doesn’t make you two siblings.  Keep at what you’re doing, but inch closer.”

Thomas nods and dons a focused expression, inching artlessly closer, but at least he’s attentive to the Hobblegrunt’s changing moods, shown in the color of her skin.  When her frill spreads out in alarm, he hastily shuffles backwards until her scales go from green to purple. 

In my periphery, I glimpse Mina, slouching out across the field.  It pulls at my heartstrings, to see her so downhearted, so I shout her name and wave her over.  She approaches in the corner of my eye, and there I see her slowly schooling her misery into a bright smile.  By the time she leans on the grate beside me, she’s beaming. 

“Yes, Marco, sir?” she pipes up.  “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Mina.”  I turn to face her halfway, my eyes flitting between her and Thomas.  “You did awesome out there today, okay?  I only got you out of there because you were getting stressed out about it.  But seriously, good job.”

“It’s okay,” she says lightly, eyes downcast.  “I know I could’ve done better.  I was too nervous.”

“Mina, what did I just say?”  I glance at her again.  “Sometimes, people and dragons just aren’t meant to be together.  It’s no fault of yours.  Dragons are individual as people.”

“Yeah, but Hobblegrunts are some of the most docile ones, you know?”  She turns away, her expression crumbling.  “If I can’t handle a creature that lets you know how it's feeling with its skin, what can I handle?”

“Maybe you’re meant for something a little more dangerous, then.”  I smile at her warmly.  “Hey, I thought the same thing when I was your age too, okay?  Look what I ended up with.”

Lifting my eyes briefly from the training ring, I smile at Orochi where he’s playing with my helmet, flicking it with his long, slender tail and bounding gleefully after its awkward, lopsided circles.  She does too, and I see a split of a real smile across her face. 

“Yeah, well.”  She smiles shyly at me.  “I mean, you’re… you.  But, um.  Thank you.  Means a lot.”

“Of course.”  I pause, tensing as Thomas causes the dragon to go blood red, but he retreats perfectly in time, moving back into the Hobblegrunt’s safe zones, and I relax again.  “Hey, I’m pretty sure Levi has a Windstriker or two he’s looking to get rid of.  Maybe I’ll see what I can do to bring them around?”

Her eyes shimmer, grin stretching wider than ever.  “Thank you, Marco.  You’re the best.”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that,” I chuckle, smiling widely, “but it’s what I’m here for, right?  Now, you get a good night of sleep, alright?”

“Yes, sir!”  Still smiling, Mina tips her head and all but skips off.  The mud splashes up around her boots as she trots down the road.  I watch her in the corner of my eye until she disappears into the main town, lost in the buzz of busy people.  For a moment, I believe I glimpse another face I recognize amongst the crowd, but there’s no time for me to waste focusing on my friends quite yet. 

“Oi, Thomas!” I call down into the ring as the last little bit of purple on the edges of the Hobblegrunt’s fringe ebb into a contented green.  “Try to bond with her, alright?” 

Shocked, he risks a brief glance towards me.  “Bond with her?!  Already?!  Didn’t you just say that wouldn’t work?” 

“You’ve been working for a week with her already, Thomas!” I remind him.  “I’m not expecting any results, not really – just to get her into the mindset that you have a goal in your relationship.”

Thomas’s face flickers briefly with fear, and the purple returns on the Hobblegrunt’s frill as she picks up on that fact.  I don’t miss the curious half-step forward she takes, the puff of her nostrils, the way she studies him intently.  They may not be ready to commit to the entire bond, but I’m curious to see what may happen. 

Hesitantly, Thomas drops one hand by his side.  “A-are you sure this is a good idea, Marco?”

“If anything happens, remember, she’s still vastly afraid of you yet,” I remind him patiently.  “She might attempt to flee is all.  This is about showing her you don’t want to be her alpha, you want to be her partner.  Alright?” 

Thomas seems slightly more satisfied with the justification.  He nods importantly, and, with only a second more of hesitance, reaches his outstretched hand towards the dragon.  Taking a deep breath, he looks away from the dragon, a clear invitation should she want to take it. 

I hold my breath.  My pulse flutters excitedly in my chest.  As if sensing my excitement, Orochi bounds over to my side, helmet grasped in his maw.  While I watch the Hobblegrunt’s deliberation with bated breath, he noses himself beneath my arm, purring happily as I curl my fingers and scratch at a special spot beneath his jaw.  His purring grows louder, and his body goes slack.  Orochi’s body hits the ground with a sated thump, and he sits happily at my feet, still gnawing at my helmet. 

At last breaking the tension, the Hobblegrunt stretches her muzzle forward, flushed her curious purple, and takes one whiff of Thomas’s hand.  One whiff, long and wondering.  She recoils quickly immediately after, but my heart feels like it might burst in my chest. 

“Attaboy, Thomas!” I roar.  Orochi squeals in time with me, hopping back to his feet and brushing his entire body against mine, shoving against me playfully like a cat.  Through laughter, I shove him away, rolling my eyes. 

“Lock her up, Thomas, she’s been through enough today.”  I beam down at him, pride giving my heart wings.  “And then go home and brag to everyone you meet along the way, hey?  Show the town a thing or two.”

Thomas turns to grin ecstatically up at me.  “You got it, Marco!” he chirps, guiding the Hobblegrunt back towards her cage.  “You heading off early?  I can close up here if you are.” 

I glance sheepishly down towards Orochi.  “Well, yeah, if you don’t mind,” I laugh bashfully, stroking behind Orochi’s ears absentmindedly.  “I think this one’s getting antsy.  Getting grumpy, aren’t you, you big baby?”

Orochi growls and grumbles back at me, imitating my voice, then sets his head heavily atop of mine.  Laughing, I push him off of me again, but he persistently pushes his muzzle against my shoulder, snuffling at the ticklish stump of my arm. 

“Don’t worry about it, Marco,” Thomas says with a smile.  “I can handle things here.  Go have fun.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it.  Least I could do, actually.  Maybe I should leave you some chocolates for the morning, eh?”  He releases a roar of laughter, shaking his head.  “But seriously.  Get outta here.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” I answer.  “You’re the man, Thomas.  Come and find me if you’ve got any troubles.”

He nods and salutes goodbye, disappearing in the shadow of the training ring.  Orochi releases a rumbling moan, collapsing melodramatically beside me.  His tail thrashes agitatedly, fins furling and unfurling.  Grumbling, he rolls onto his back, flailing his paws into the air, and glares at me with big, green eyes. 

“Aww, Orochi, that’s no way to be,” I whine, reaching down and ruffling a hand through his ear frills.  “Hey, Orochi.”  He senses the excitement in my voice and pauses in his melodrama.  “Hey, Orochi, you wanna go fly, huh?  That what you want?”

Excitedly, he springs to his feet, obediently letting my helmet fall to the ground in front of him.  Mrrowing and clicking, wiggling his wings, and thrashing his tail, Orochi circles back around and bares me his back and the sleek leather saddle sat upon it. 

When I’d first come across him, he’d been utterly distrustful of any attempts near his backside.  My heart swells.  Eagerly, he nudges the saddle against my arm again, grinning toothily. 

Unlike the other dragons, he never seems keen on flying without me, despite Hanji’s insistence that it was highly illogical for a dragon not to desire any sort of independence. 

 _He’s independent in other ways,_ I had told them as we’d watched him spin their wind-measuring thing idly with the tip of one claw. 

I scoop up the helmet, but my hand touches wet slobber.  “Oh, ewww, Orochi!” I complain, scowling at him and dropping the helmet again.  He grins at me.  “You’re disgusting,” I sigh, but he only makes his noises again, ears standing pert with excitement.

“This is all your fault,” I tell him, lowering the slobbery helmet onto my head.  Thomas barks with laughter from somewhere, probably amused by the disgusted face I’m making. 

“You just wait until you have a dragon of your own!” I shout out, not directing my voice towards anywhere in particular.  “They’re the slobberiest little demons to walk this earth.”

But without further deliberation, I take ahold of the pommel of Orochi’s saddle and swing myself up, settling myself comfortably into the leather seat.  While I’m shifting, he remains perfectly still beneath me.  Maybe he knows that, because of my missing arm, things like this are harder.  The special saddle Hanji had made for me still isn’t perfect, like a lot of things on this island. 

Orochi feels warm beneath me.  His chest expands with every breath, his powerful lungs filling with apprehension, and, as I smooth my hand calmingly against the hot, scaly flesh of his neck, I feel the pulse of his heart beneath my fingers.  The ears that’d once been flicking around eagerly slowly swivel about until they’re solidly fixed on me, attentive and awaiting my command.  Just as he watches me with one huge, green eye, pupil dilated and round, I watch him, too. 

It’s a partnership.  A relationship.  I hope he draws as much comfort from that as I do. 

“You ready, bud?” I whisper, my voice soft.  He huffs and shakes his head, sinking into a crouch.  A tingle of excitement slinks down my spine, and I shiver.   “Okay, well, let’s –”

“Marco!”  A proud voice demands me, and immediately, I fall out of stance and lift my head, meeting icy blue eyes.  “Forgive me for interrupting, but may I have a short word with you?”

The bearskin cloak ripples behind Chief Erwin as he strides powerfully towards me.  His helmet is slung beneath the stump of his missing arm, lost to pirates, not dragons, long ago.  A brightly painted shield peeks out from over his shoulder.  The crisscrossing leather and metal armor across his chest shines as if Levi had just cleaned it.  The serene look of his eyes hides most any strife or stress that may be happening behind them. 

“Ah – of course!”  Hastily, I move to dismount, but he waves his hand. 

“No, no, stay atop him,” Erwin dismisses, cracking a quick smile.  “I of all people know how hard it can be to mount a dragon with one arm.  I merely wanted to ask… have you noticed anything… unusual on your trips?”

“Unusual?”  I cock my head to one side, patting Orochi’s neck to soothe his impatience.  “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he says, and though there is obviously a reason, it’s not my place to argue.  “You go out every day, and I was wondering if…”

“No, nothing really unusual.”  I frown, searching my memory for the unusual like he asks, but unable to find anything that sticks out.  “I mean, I’ve found a few new islands out there, and I know Eren has, too.  There doesn’t seem to be much activity out there right now, actually.  It’s been a while since I came across a herd of Thunderclaws.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I mean… I guess?”  I scratch at my head.  “I dunno, Chief.  I’ll keep an eye out for sure, though.” 

“Of course.”  He nods crisply.  “Carry on, then, Marco.  And be careful out there.”

“Yes, sir.”  I nod, sinking back into the saddle.  “Any idea what unusual I’m looking for?”

Erwin’s face is a stone mask.  “Not really.  Like I said.  Be careful.”

“Yes, sir.”  I pat at Orochi’s neck, rekindling his fire.  “If you don’t mind, Chief, he gets nervous if he has to wait for too long…”

“Of course.”  Erwin steps back, nodding his head.  “Good luck out there.  Come to me if you have any concerns.” 

Erwin turns on heel without another word, his bearskin cloak whisking out behind him and fluttering with every step.  I watch him curiously for a few moments, wondering what could possibly be plaguing him.  Orochi gurgles impatiently, shifting beneath me. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”  I pat his neck, lowering myself into the position and hooking my feet firmly through the stirrups.  “You ready, buddy?”

He snorts and arches his neck, but immediately flattens out again, spreading his wings wide in preparation. 

“C’mon, buddy,” I whisper, peering through his black ears.  “Whenever you’re ready.”

The moment the words leave my lips, he erupts forward, bounding over the land.  The cliff grows closer and closer with every stride, and beyond it only the dark, tossing ocean and the cruel grey sky.  My heart sings and his paws slam against the turf and then he leaps. 

For a single moment, we are frozen in the air, suspended by gravity and nothing else, the sea before us and land behind us.  The air is crisp and sharp, the wind tugs playfully at the hair peeking out from beneath my helmet.  I only have the time to remember to flatten myself against his back, using my one hand to grab at a handle located on his breast strap for precisely this reason.

And then we fall. We are falling, plunging down towards the turbulent ocean too quickly for the blood to rush to my head, and I am not sure if it a dive or truly a plummet to the certain death awaiting us, whether or not we are to pull out of this spiral or whether we shall accept gravity’s one lethal law.   

My helmet is whipped off my head, the sudden cold of ocean air a not unenjoyable shock.  I gasp at the sudden freedom. 

The wind howls in my ears, the salt spray carried on its wake bringing tears to my eyes.  It tears savagely through my hair as we fall.  The rocks spiral closer and closer, the white sea foam spitting upwards, as if trying to welcome us.    

The world slows until my beating heart seems lethargic in my chest, until the waves seem graceful as they trickle off the black, jagged rock face to one side of us and the daggered stones below and slowly, slowly, Orochi arches his wings on either side of me. 

We pull out of the dive at the very last moment, the sharp turn jostling me and sending a streak of pain through my neck – had I not been clutching him so tightly, the momentum would’ve snapped it.  I flatten myself further against him at the thought, but a full-toothed grin stretches wide across my face as we shoot over the surface of the water, carried by the speed of our fall. 

The ocean stretches beyond like an endless plain, kissing the cloudy sky on the distant horizon.  The waves roar beneath us, so close I could touch them if I only dared reach out.  The wind is singing now, singing in my ears and elation has seized me. 

I feel Orochi’s unbridled joy thrumming through my bones, his excitement crackling through the air like electricity, yet he waits for me, waits for me to recover from the neck-breaking maneuver he’d pulled.  I press my chest against his back, still grinning broad, heart still throbbing with the candid blend of terror and exhilaration that a brush with death ending in survival can create. 

With numbed fingers, I yank the saddle to one side, hurling my center of balance after it. 

Orochi banks right, lifting off the surface of the water ever so slightly, but one of his wings trails through the ocean’s waves.  The icy spray stings against my hand, seeps through my armor to cool the clothing underneath.  Hooting happily at the sting, I press my face closer to him, nuzzling close to his warmth – my nose bumps against his warm scales as he lifts his head as warning. 

And upwards we go, his mighty black wings capturing the air and lifting us up, up towards the grey clouds and yet also outwards, towards the pillars of rock and the glistening icebergs standing up like tombstones from the water.  Some stand so proudly they pierce the sky’s veil, others meet the wilting clouds halfway between. 

“Attaboy, Orochi,” I mumble, rubbing my fingers reassuringly beneath the band of his saddle.  He rumbles lovingly beneath me, as if he, too, feels it.  This remarkable closeness.  This together we feel when flying.  I smile, resting my forehead against the crook of his neck. 

Cool moisture beads on my cheeks, tears left behind by the clouds we pass through.  I peek one eye open to see the austere grey give way to vivid color.  A snowy blanket, a turquoise sky, a blazing yellow sun resting on its white pillow and turning the gleam of Orochi’s scales into a flaxen gold. 

It doesn’t take long for him to even out the flaps of his wings, blending them into a seamless glide that carries us through the sky.  The world seems so still aside from the two of us – not a dragon in sight for miles, not another soul to disturb the perfect utopia atop the clouds.  Serenity has claimed this separate universe above the sky.  We’ve left ours behind. 

I straighten out my back, peeling myself from my saddle and off his sleek black scales.  The wind is gentler now, caressing at my hair and batting it about rather than raking its icy talons along my scalp.  If I trusted my balance, I’d wipe the tears now frozen off my cheeks, but my grip remains firmly on Orochi.  My hands are a constant reminder that I am here, that I am okay.  He doesn’t like it much when he doesn’t have that reassurance. 

It is beautiful.  It is timeless.  The sun is at our backs and we glide along her beams of light.  But it’s something I’ve seen countless times, and Orochi countless more.  Bending back over and hooking my fingers around the handhold, I mutter, “How about something a little more challenging, huh?”

His body trembles beneath me with the strength of his answering roar.  A familiar ecstasy pounds through my veins again.  With a wild, crazy laugh, I throw my weight forward into the saddle and we tip forward into another dive. 

 _This is what I’m trying to let those kids achieve._ As the soft nip of the wind once more rages back into a frigid burn, I grin.   _This is what I want them to feel, this bond, this unity…_

Orochi’s wings slam out moments before we hit the ocean and shoot us forward again.  Again, my head jerks, again, momentary pain laces through my spine, but it’s forgotten once more.  I whoop, and, with an answering roar, Orochi banks left sharply, soaring up towards the sky at a near vertical angle.  My skin is cold and numb and tingling but the blood roaring through my veins has never been more alive. 

I throw my head back and release a wild yell of Orochi’s name, too blissed out on the sensation of flying with him to care who might hear. 

And again, Orochi roars back, powerful and throaty, the sound of it rumbling through me like a beat of thunder.  The wind rakes through my hair and the salt is in my eyes and I couldn’t care _less_.  My muscles throb with a mixture of energy and pain and I couldn’t care _less._ The sky itself could fall and I wouldn’t care _less_ because _I am in heaven._

_This is what dragon riding is._

* * *

 

I feel Orochi’s disappointment beneath me with every beat of his wings as the green and grey island of Berk appears on the horizon.  Each seems slower than the last, and his ears once held high slump back against his neck. 

It’d be going too far to say that I don’t share his disappointment, because there’s a pang of loss in my chest as the sad, slumping houses of the village come into view.  No number of colorful dragons could ever disguise the lack of sun.  I think almost bitterly back to the days when the sight of it had been a massive relief, back when the vast world beyond had been a frightening notion.  Nostalgia for simpler times is silly, of course, but this new wanderlust is not a thirst easily quartered by the island’s confines. 

Not to say that I dislike the island, either.  It may be damp and cold and miserable, but it’s also the home of my best friends and many of my best memories.  It’s here that I help kids learn to make bonds like mine.  And I suppose I can suffer through the misery for little things like that. 

Two of those said little things are circling now over the harbor like a confused predatory bird.  Orochi grumbles at the sight of them, maybe in annoyance, maybe in reluctant recognition.  Even from across the water, I can hear their cackles and cries over the crashing waves.  I crack a smile and shift my weight, guiding us on a more direct path towards them. 

A Hideous Zippleback is a sight to behold, with two heads capable of bonding with different people.  It’s sometimes hard to control a menacing beast with two heads and two personalities to please, and despite the overall commonness of the dragon, it’s hardly ever a choice for dragon trainers.  That said, no one was surprised when Sasha and Connie ended up with one of the big uglies to share. 

“Maaaaaaarco!”  Sasha’s voice echoes towards me, and Orochi’s ears perk towards it.  I stand up in the saddle and wave my hand wildly towards her.  Connie – or at least I think it’s Connie – whoops enthusiastically as we join their awkward, vaguely circular loop. 

“Hey, man, we’ve been looking for you!” Sasha shouts, sitting high and mighty right behind Linnie’s set of horns.  Draped over Linnie’s neck like saddlebags are different sacks of food, undoubtedly stolen from the marketplace during her hours off work. 

“Have you now?” I call.  “Why?  What’s going on?”

“Eren’s gathering up the gang; he’s found an island he’s really excited about!” Connie answers, making an effort to quit at the pointless circles and instead hover with his head, Chusi.  Linnie takes a few seconds longer, causing the dragon to pivot around once more. 

I lift my eyebrows, surprised.  “Isn’t he off training with Levi?”

Sasha shrugs with both hands.  “That’s what I thought too!  Levi’s old Razorwhip threw a fit!  I swear to Thor that creature is just as evil as the midget.”

“Do we know what was wrong with the Razorwhip?” I ask, concerned.  “It could be seriously hurt.”

“Nah, it’s fine!” Connie says.  “If something was wrong, Eren wouldn’t leave Levi’s side.”

“We think he called the dragon Scrapmetal,” Sasha adds.  “At least, that’s what we heard when we were hovering.”

“That sounds more like a nickname to me,” I say thoughtfully.  “Listen, let’s touch down, okay?  Orochi needs to rest for a second before we take off again.”

They agree, and the three of us drop down onto a semi-grassy, semi-muddy patch of land outside the village.  The moment Sasha and Connie scramble off their saddles, Linnie and Chusi seem content with flying away, joining the legions of dragons perched on the sagging rooftop of the forge.  Orochi stays by my side, rumbling contentedly.  After I rub at his nose to acknowledge his affection, he hops out a ways to inspect something in a patch of heather, but doesn’t go any further. 

“You guys have gotten much better at flying with two heads,” I say, smiling.  “I almost feel comfortable flying near you guys.”

“Oh, har de har,” Sasha giggles, pulling her slightly-too-large helmet off and letting her long, pretty brown hair out.  “It’s just because this guy pulled his head out of his ass at last and started listening to me.”

She elbows Connie hard in the gut, and he squawks indignantly, doubling over himself. 

“Not true,” he hisses, aiming a savage kick at her shins.  “We learned how to _cooperate_ , don’t listen to this woman –“

“I am the head of this house!” Sasha cries, headbutting him in the forehead, skin against helmet.  “You will obey me!”

“Okay, calm down, you two,” I order, holding up my hands sternly.  “Did Eren say where he and the others were?”

Connie straightens, miffed, but not before getting one final jab at Sasha’s belly.  “Eren and Armin are probably out getting Titan all strapped up somewhere.”

“They’re so cute, aren’t they?” Sasha sighs dreamily.  “I mean, I don’t know why Armin got a Terrible Terror, but it’s cute that Eren lets him ride with him and Titan.”

I shrug.  “It’d be cuter if Armin wasn’t terrified of Titan.  I think Gronckles are just about where he draws the line between scary and tolerable.”

“That’s true,” Connie says.  “But anyway, Sindri burned up another saddle, so Mikasa might not be able to ride with us.  That or she’ll be with Eren, too.”

“That’s the problem with Skrill,” I add, shaking my head sympathetically.  “That electricity of theirs can burn through just about anything.  She wasn’t on the saddle when it happened, was she?”

“Odin, no,” Sasha says, eyes widening.  “I don’t think Sindri would ever hurt her.  But hey, what do I know about that dragon?  It’s scary as hell.”

“People used to think Night Furies were scary as hell, too,” I remind them.  I gesture towards Orochi where he sits, still stalking something in the heather, his tail twitching.  “I mean, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think he’s quite the picture of terror.”

As if I’d planned it, Orochi squeals in alarm and bolts backwards onto his hind legs with too much energy.  He loses his balance and falls backwards, landing with heavy thump and a puff of dandelion fluff.  Clicking disorientedly, he rolls back onto his feet and hisses, though it sounds confused, not angry at anything in particular.  Baffled, he blinks over at me, and I shrug in response.  

“You make a strong case,” Sasha says gravely as Orochi hops over, spritely as ever.  “But anyway, don’t go far, alright?  We’re gonna go track the others down.”

Orochi butts his head affectionately against my shoulder, and I stroke my fingers down his nose absentmindedly.  “Got it.  Stay here.”

“Looks like you’ve got trouble headed this way, too, so we’ll be true friends and leave you alone to face it.”  Connie winks.  “C’mon, Sash.  Let’s get going.”

Giggling a goodbye, she wiggles her fingers at me and skips down the only road to the camp beside him.  I watch them go, smiling, unable to force myself to be upset at their smarmy charms.  Leaning my weight against Orochi’s body, I use my free hand scratch behind his ears. 

“They’re something, huh?” I muse, roving my hand down ’s neck as he purrs.  “Don’t think I could find a better match if I tried.”

“Probably not,” Hanji’s voice remarks from behind me.  “Pity they’re both thickheaded enough to not realize their own feelings of affection.”

The hairs on the end of my neck stand.  With a noise halfway between a choke and a gasp, I wheel around, thrusting out a hand to keep me balanced.  On the edge of the cliff’s path sits a strange looking Viking, with glass contraptions over their eyes and mud splattering up and down foreign clothing. 

“Hanji,” I gasp as my heart restarts.  “You can’t – you can’t just sneak up on people.  Stop that!”

They shrug unapologetically from behind me, falling into a crouch and studying Orochi, who’d sprung in the air just as much as me and is now curled around my feet.  He casts glances between me and Hanji – he recognizes her as a friend, of course, but a friend who’d startled me.  I don’t know whether to consider it touching or disturbing that he’d betray their friendship for my peace of mind. 

“He’s grown quite a bit since I’ve seen him last,” Hanji remarks, their eyebrows going up.  “Maybe an entire centimeter.  Have you fed him anything out of the ordinary?”

“Um.”  I shrug.  “He got some scraps of the deer we caught while out with Mike.  And it’s only been a week since we stopped by – how do you know he’s grown?”

Grinning maniacally, they straighten and push their glasses further up their nose.  “I just can tell this kind of thing.  Aren’t you going to ask what I was doing out here?”

“You know what?”  I crack a smile, signaling Orochi to relax.  “Sure.  Tell me what you were doing out here.  And explain why you crept up on me, too.”

And without further ado, they launch into a long, passionate rant about something or another on the side of the cliff – some dragon?  A new dragon?  I can’t understand, to be completely honest.  But it makes them happy to be able to share their discoveries, so I listen along in semi-attentiveness, nodding and grunting in all the right places. 

Hanji is an individual here in the tribe.  They didn’t originally come from Berk, but found their way here after being kicked out of their home for being a “they” and not a “she”.  I don’t remember when they’d first arrived, but my mother talks about it all the time – how they flew down on the wings of a Nighty Fury and chased off all the dragons in the midst of an attack, like a blessing from the Gods.  Though their differences were many, they found a home with other misfits around here.  I don’t know quite what they’d consider me, but they’re my friend, and I’m happy to see them, even if they scared me half to death. 

As they ramble on for the sixth consecutive minute, explaining raptly the detail in which she scaled down the sharp cliff, Orochi once more becomes bored.  He moans and rumbles, butting his head against my shoulders, nibbling at my ear and trying to knock my legs out from under me.  I push him away, but Hanji is considerably more responsive to a dragon’s needs than a person’s. 

“Oh!” they exclaim as Orochi releases a melodramatic wail.  “I’m keeping you, aren’t I?  I’m sorry, time flies when you’re having fun!”

“No, it’s fine, this guy’s just being a baby.”  I nudge him with the two of my boot, and he collapses on the ground with a long sigh.  “See?  Lil hambone.”

“He’s trying to speak with you,” they lecture.  “He might do it goofily or overzealously, but he’s still trying to say that he’s bored.  Go on now, scat.  Entertain your dragon.”

“I can’t, I’m waiting for Eren to get here so we can head off.”  Fondly, I stroke at Orochi’s muzzle, cradling his head as best I can with one arm.  “He won’t be bored once they’re back, I’m sure.”

“Eren is a fine boy,” they say proudly.  “He helped me out with my Typhoomerangs – see, I thought that the blue one would be the quickest to mature, but old Bean’s green child was the one that ate the other two.  Just last night, actually.  I think he’s the smartest!  Intellectual prowess, how fascinating.  He’ll be a great heir to Mama Bean!”

I snort, shaking my head wordlessly.  Hanji had managed to both find and bond with a mother Typhoomerang earlier that winter, and had taken great zest in hatching and raising her young.  The tribe had been less thrilled, especially after the babies had gotten loose and burned down more than one house with their childish antics.  At least there would be a general cheer about one finally eating the other two. 

“Oh!”  Hanji hurls out a pointer finger towards the village, bouncing up and down on the balls of their feet.  “There’s Eren, heading this way!  Well, I suppose it was nice talking to you, Marco.”  From behind their thick, glass lenses, their eyes narrow sharply.  “Where was it you said you were headed?”

I shrug, scratching sheepishly at the back of my hair.  “I dunno, to be completely honest.  Some beach somewhere that Eren found.”

Hanji nods slowly, their eyes filled with turmoil.  “Sounds fun.  But listen, you be careful, alright?  Trust your Night Fury.  He always knows what’s best for you.”

“I will be.”  I hesitate, ignoring Eren’s cry of my name in the distance.  “And we’ll keep our eyes open, alright?  I don’t know what’s going on but… we will.”

“Good.”  Hanji strokes at their chin, troubled.  “Look out for the rest of them.  I’ll see you when you get back, alright?”

I open my mouth to respond, but they’re already wandering off, walking a zigzagging trail back to the village.  The words die on my tongue for a reason I can’t quite explain even to myself.  Even as Eren stampedes upon Orochi and I, I can’t bring myself to tear my gaze away from them. 

“Hey, man!”  Eren claps my shoulder firmly.  “You seem like you’re off in space, bud.  Welcome back to Berk.”

I shake my head to dispel the last bits of my stupor.  “Oh, sorry.  Hanji, you know?”

Eren shudders, miming disgust.  “Don’t I ever.  Have to talk to them every day.”  He breaks into a huge smile, and slaps me across the back again, knocking my breath away with the force behind it.  “So, Mr. Teacher-Man, Thomas was prattling about how he’s been making connections with that ol’ Hobblegrunt o’ yours – how much of it was shit, eh?”

“Thomas is actually doing great,” I laugh breathily, cuffing Eren back, but probably much lighter than he’d done to me.  “You sell that guy short.”

“Nah, not really,” Eren guffaws, retreating a few steps to fix his helmet, “but you sure do blow his ego up.”

“What Eren’s _trying_ to say,” Armin breaks in, tucking his hair behind his ear, “is that he’s glad you’re supporting Thomas through this.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Eren says, grinning.  He leans an elbow on Armin’s shoulder, passing a soft glance to the blond Viking.  Mikasa looms behind the two of them, her only greeting to me a small, nearly imperceptible smile and an incline of the head. 

The three of them are a bit of a bizarre trio, but they’ve been together as long as I can remember.  Mikasa, silent, pale, and beautiful yet utterly uninterested in any romance, with her scarlet scarf layered beneath spiked iron armor.  Armin, small and dare I say it, cute, a knob of a messy bun on the back of his head with blond hair flopping into his face and huge blue eyes, with a love of exploration and dragons despite his timidity.  And Eren… the most attractive Viking on Berk, with fierce green eyes and a temper to match them, the prodigy that the village always seems to be abuzz about for some reason. 

Connie and Sasha bound up the trail behind the trio, arm in arm.  “Maaaaarco!” Sasha sings, dragging Connie towards me.  “We brought Eren!  And Armin!  And Mikasa tooooooooo!”

“Agh, get off of me,” Connie moans, shrugging her off his shoulder.  “Yeah, Marco, we’ve got em.  Everyone’s saddled up and ready to go.”

“That so?”  I raise my eyebrows at Armin.  “You’ll be going with Titan, then?  You’re okay with that?”

He blushes, cheeks turning a pretty pink.  “I mean, I don’t think I have much of a choice.  Titan can hold the three of us, we know that much.  I mean, he has before.”

“So Mikasa’s flying with you, too, Eren?” I ask incredulously.  “I don’t know about that.  Titan’s big, but he’ll lose a lot of his power.”

Eren shrugs indifferently.  “It’s not like we’re going to be fighting for our lives.  The dragons are just going to be a ferry back and forth.”

Orochi groans next to me, headbutting my shoulder indignantly.  “He’s kidding, bud,” I mumble, pushing him away with a roll of my eyes.  “I don’t know, Eren.  I don’t like you guys being that weighed down.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Eren says, pausing to whistle for Titan.  “Anyway, it’s not like I’m leaving either of them behind.”

“No, of course not!” I amend hastily.  “But what if instead I took Armin with me?  You’d be okay with that, right, Armin?”

When I smile at him, Armin flushes scarlet and stares down at his feet.  “Um.  But wouldn’t that weigh Orochi down?  Two overpacked dragons surely isn’t any better… right?”

Orochi shoots Armin an incredulous glare, miffed.  He huffs and snarls and sticks his nose in the air.  I bump my hip against him, making a soft noise of adoration.  “Hey, don’t sell him short.  He’s a big whiny baby, but a Nighty Fury over its weight limit is still faster than an old Monstrous Nightmare any day.”

“Them be fighting words, Marco!” Connie hoots, jumping up with excitement.  On his part, Orochi puffs out his chest and hisses smugly at Eren. 

“We’ll settle this at the island,” Eren says with a mock of a threat, not quite able to hide the curl of a smile at his lips.  “Armin, what’s it going to be?  Me or hotshot over here?”

“Y-you,” Armin says, just as the Nightmare lands heavily besides us.  “I mean, I just got comfortable with Titan – no offense or anything, Marco –”

“None taken,” I reassure, waving a hand, hiding the boil of worry in my gut with an effortless smile.  “But hey, Eren, nothing risky, alright?”

“Me?  Risky?  You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Mikasa promises with another ghost of a smile. 

Eren swats at her playfully but jogs over to Titan’s side before an all-out Viking tussle can occur.  A large Monstrous Nightmare by comparison to the standard male, Eren’s dragon is a fine specimen, his purple facial scales flowing into a vibrant magenta along his back.  Though he’s far from being Erwin’s regal Nightmare at the legendary Titan Wing age, he’s fierce and possibly one of the best fighters on the island, much like Eren himself. 

As he accepts his master’s calming hands moving along his nose, along his neck, Titan eyes me as if he can tell that I’d just been doubting his ability to fly.  I smile sheepishly at him, but that does nothing to tame his royal stinkeye. 

“Well, what are we waiting for?”  Eren glances over his shoulder, smirking as he swings himself up into the saddle.  He looks regal seated behind the horns of a Monstrous Nightmare, and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look sexy.  “C’mon up, Armin.  Mikasa, you too.  Hey, Potato Girl, Baldie, saddle up!”

“You heard him!” I call, clapping my hands.  Linnie and Chusi lift their heads, Titan watches me in the corner of his eyes, Orochi bounces up and down at the prospect of a round two.  “Saddle up, everybody!”

Sasha and Connie are off before I can turn back to Orochi, but I don’t think either of them were fully seated or fully in control of their heads, as Linnie and Chusi dash for the edge only to take a magnificent swan dive I can only hope they manage to pull out of. 

For his credit, Titan is more patient in the execution of his takeoff.  He waits, growling with apprehension, as Armin loops his arms around Eren’s waist and settles, as Mikasa climbs behind both of them but doesn’t bother to hold on.  I can feel his gaze on me as I clamber onto Orochi with as much grace as I can muster, but I’ve gotten so used to people staring at the cripple struggling it doesn’t really faze me. 

But the moment Titan hits the sky, he, too, is about as graceful as a stone.  He plummets for a good twenty feet before bobbing up and down like a tugboat on a rocky sea.  I grimace at the rapid wingbeats keeping him airborne.  The laborious incline he struggles up isn’t kind, but the updrafts he’s flying towards will provide him with at least _some_ relief. 

“Oh, boy,” I whisper, roving my fingers along Orochi’s scales.  “Do you have a weird feeling in the pit of your stomach?”

He makes a noise of uncertainty, laying his ears flat against his neck, a small hiss in the back of his throat. 

“Okay.”  I release a tense sigh.  “Just checking.  Well, bud, let’s get to it, then.  Whenever you’re ready.”

Orochi bounds forward and leaps off the cliff, soaring reluctantly after the two idiots. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Night Fury](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Night_Fury)  
> -[Hobblegrunt](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Hobblegrunt)  
> -[Hideous Zippleback](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Hideous_Zippleback)  
> -[Terrible Terror](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Terrible_Terror)  
> -[Monstrous Nightmare](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Monstrous_Nightmare)
> 
> If you have any additional questions, please ask!!!


	2. Screaming Death

No matter how amateur liftoff had been, we fly together like we always have. 

“Sasha!  Connie!”  I splutter and flick my fingers, an involuntary shiver ripping up my spine as icy cold water trickles through my leather armor and into my clothes.  Orochi roars in irritation and shakes his head, dispelling water from off his snout.  They soar off, cackling.

“Oh, they are going to pay,” I mutter, scowling.  “Orochi!  Go get ‘em, bud!”

He squeals out his agreement, gathering the air beneath his wings to propel himself.  With a broad flap of his wings, we are diving.  The water rolls in quick-moving rivulets along his scales, and I feel the wetness on my face blowing off.  We catch up to them just as they’re skimming the surface of the water, Linnie’s chin grazing the surface as Sasha bends down to fill the bucket back up again. 

Orochi roars out a challenge the moment we’re in range, overpowering my Viking war cry like a clap of thunder.  

Connie yelps and yanks upwards on Chusi, sending a wave of motion through their dragon that knocks Sasha out of the saddle.  With a disgruntled squeak, she vanishes beneath the waves.  Her wet head appears a few seconds later, spluttering curses already.  Linnie wails at the loss of her rider. 

With only half control of his dragon, Connie desperately tries to shoot upwards.  Through the chaos, he jeers unintelligibly and shakes a fist at me. 

I laugh maniacally, urging Orochi forward and giving chase.  We gain quickly.  The thrill of the chase is tangible in the air between him and I, our excitement growing stronger with each new inch we fly.  In a matter of seconds, our shadow is cast down below upon the hopeless Zippleback. 

I beam triumphantly down at him.  Connie’s face drains of excitement.  Crowing out pleas to retreat, he yanks back, tries to redirect course, but isn’t quick enough.  Orochi knocks him clean out of the saddle with a solid thwack of his tail. 

Connie falls through the air without a dollop of grace, rolling head over heels until his back hits the water with a resounding slapping noise.  I wince and hiss in sympathy, but from wherever she is in the waves, Sasha cheers encouragingly.  Just as unsympathetic, Orochi issues his grating laugh. 

“Oh, man,” Sasha cackles gleefully, “he’s going to hurt for weeks!”

“Is he going to be okay?” I ask.  

Before Sasha can answer my question, Connie reappears with an invigorated roar.  “THAT WAS AWESOME.”

“Right?” she echoes, squealing happily, doggy-paddling towards him.  “Did you hear the sound you made?!  It was a perfect slap!  THE perfect slap!”

“Man, I wish I could’ve heard it!” he enthuses.  “How cool did I look falling?”

“Not very,” I answer for her, sighing exasperatedly. 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself!  Hey, we should piss off Marco more often!”

“Yeah!  But next time, I call the bucket.  You get to hurt like hell, okay?”

“You’re no fun!”

“Okay, you know what’s not fun?  Bruised fucking asscheeks!”

“They’re both crazy,” I whisper to Orochi in a state of awe.   Orochi clicks an agreement, seemingly affixed on them as well. 

Linnie and Chusi fly in lazy circles above their riders.  I watch them for a second, smiling to myself, before glancing back down at their crackpot riders.  I’m not certain what dialogue was exchanged, but Connie's trying to wrestle her down into the water.  

“Hey!” 

Titan sweeps through the air in a slow circle, his huge size making it impossible to hover.  Eren scowls down at the splashing pair in the water, but a look of confusion passes over his face when our eyes meet.

“Marco?”  He frowns, brow creasing.  “I thought these two were being idiots.  What happened?”

“They’re just being idiots.”  I have to suppress a smile, and I’m not sure how well it works, what with Orochi grumbling skeptically beneath me.  “I’m just an innocent bystander.”

“Dragonshit!” Sasha hollers. 

“Yeah, he knocked us off in the first place!” Connie says. 

A smile might slip through my innocent bystander façade.  A small one.  Mikasa and Armin exchange a look that says more than words ever could, and the corners of Armin’s lips lift. 

“Marco, you dirty swine,” Eren curses, rolling his eyes.  “We’re trying to get to the beach sometime _before_ next week.”

“Oh, boo hoo,” I laugh, my heart too swollen with happiness to mourn the passing time.  “You know if you had a lighter load, you’d join in.”

“Yeah!” one of the two from below shout.  “You’d be in the water with us!”

“Oh, I don’t know about in the water,” Eren says nonchalantly.  “If anyone’d be in the water… IT’D BE MARCO!”

Titan dives forward, gleaming talons swinging into position.  I can't process it quick enough to do anything but squawk gracelessly, but luckily, Orochi tucks his wings by his sides and lets us plummet for several feet.  With a nimble curl of his wings, he swoops back up into the air.  

Sasha and Connie cheer as Titan’s claws slice at thin air.  The dragon fumbles around to face us, and a huge smile breaks out over my face.  

“Sloppy,” I lilt.  “Very sloppy.”                                         

“Whatever,” Eren grunts, feathers ruffled but otherwise okay.  “You know, we really do need to move on.”

"You should probably get out of the water!" Armin chimes, casting a worried glance downwards.  

"Never!" Sasha shrieks.  

Mikasa pipes up, surprising everyone.  “Chief Erwin seemed nervous about something when I spoke to him earlier.  He warned me to be careful out here.”

“And if Erwin’s worried about something,” Armin adds anxiously, “I really don’t want to be out here past dark with it out and about.  Especially since we have no idea what we’re looking for.”

My swollen heart deflates as if someone had sat on it.  The more I think about it, the less I want to be caught out past dark, either.  Playful field trips will have to wait for a while. 

“Wait, are they telling the truth?” Connie asks uncertainly.  “Does that mean it could be something in the water?!”

“ _Oh, Odin!_ ” Sasha all but shrieks, attempting to leap out of the water.  “LINNIE!  LINNIE!  GET ME OUTTA HERE!”

“Calm down!” I bark, steeling my nerves.  “Don’t get panicked!  If something was in there, it already would’ve eaten us _or_ it’s getting drawn to you by all that splashing!”

She quiets in half a second, but it’s more of a fearful quiet now.  Clinging to each other, Connie and Sasha call their dragon with quavering voices.  Linnie and Chusi glide low, and I dare to take my eyes off of them. 

“Thank you for reminding me about that,” I say, addressing Mikasa and Armin.  “Erwin warned me about that, too.  I’d completely forgotten.  I wouldn’t have goofed off – ah, dammit, sorry guys.”

“Hey, you can have fun,” Eren says, smirking at me.  “Just maybe let’s have fun at the beach.”

“Yeah,” Armin says, resting his chin on Eren’s shoulder, “you were just getting them back.  Neither of them are dead or injured.  No harm, no foul.”

“I am very injured!” Connie cries as the two join us, both of them like wet rats in their saddles.  “You don’t know the state my backside is in!”

“Nor do we want to,” I tell him.  “Alright, guys, form up again.  Connie, Sasha, follow Eren’s advice and wait until we reach the beach for any more goofing off, understand?”

“Yes sir!” they trumpet, Sasha attempting a lopsided salute. 

“Okay, Titan, you heard Drill Master Marco – forward!”  With a Viking war cry rival to mine, Eren speeds Titan ahead.  Linnie and Chusi are hot on their heels.  I catch fragments of Sasha and Connie’s conversation through the wind as Orochi takes up the rear – about how they’re lucky to be alive, about how weird it is that Erwin’s nervous, about how good it is that nothing appeared. 

I glance back at the water where they’d plummeted, and the last wisps of my good mood are blown away. 

They’re right.  Nothing appeared.  No gentle bolts of electricity pulsing through the water from a Shockjaw.  Not a sign of the typical packs of curious Seashockers that breach the surface to friendlily investigate.  There’s not even a slight vibration on the surface of the water to signal the passing of a Thunderdrum herd. 

And that, I think, is most disturbing of all. 

“There’s something going on here, bud,” I whisper to Orochi.  He rumbles in agreement, a rumble that doesn’t fade even as we leave the spot behind.  He rumbles uneasily the rest of the way, otherwise quiet over the equally silent waters. 

* * *

 

The moment the clouds give way, my breath is stolen by the island.  On one side are the soaring cliffs we are so very well acquainted with, complete with all their towering majesty.  But the side closer to us is pristine.  The green forest slowly fades into the light sand, and the sand into light blue water. 

Orochi rumbles appreciatively at the sight of it, his ears perking up. 

“Welcome to Jaegerland,” Eren announces, puffing his chest out. 

“That is the lamest name I’ve ever heard!” Sasha laughs. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he calls back, rolling his eyes.  “It’s a nice-ass island.  And I’ve already searched it for a Deathsong.  We’re clear.”

My gaze sweeps over the shore, searching for potential danger.  It seems relatively safe.  Visibility goes out for several dozen meters, guessing from up here, so there’s probably not going to be much in the way of predators.  The beach itself seems nice, with cliffs on either side.  At the edges of the cliffs, though, there’s a problem.  My shoulders slump. 

The Whispering Death are a very nasty sort of dragon.  Mostly snakelike and skinny until its enormous, bulbous head, it’s an odd-looking creature.  In fact, Hanji’s been fascinated by its anatomy for years.  Inside that enormous, bulbous head are row upon row of rotating teeth, sharp and hard enough to drill through solid rock.  Although their eyes are sensitive to sunlight, they’re territorial and will probably attack us if we get anywhere near their burrows. 

“Eren, those are Whispering Death holes,” I shout at him, shaking my head.  “I don’t think it’s safe to go anywhere near that place.”

“That’s what I thought, too!” Armin speaks up.  “But we checked them out.  They’re all abandoned.”

“Abandoned?”  My stomach pangs icily.  “What do you mean, abandoned?!”

Eren shrugs.  “Yeah, it was why we set down in the first place.  Armin wanted to check something out with the Whispering Deaths, but these holes were all empty.”

“Don’t Whispering Deaths live in the same hole their entire life?” Connie asks, cocking his head to one side. 

“No, actually, they don’t,” Armin says, frowning. “They can’t always maintain their tunnels, so when it falls into disrepair, they move.  But I think only one of those was in that state.  It was really weird.”

“That _is_ really weird,” I murmur, struggling to keep my mood positive despite the chanting of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ in the back of my head.  “Alright, guys.  Let’s touch down then.  Oh, and Eren?”

Eren stares at me expectantly. 

“Be a little more careful in your landing than you were in your takeoff, alright?”

He throws his head back with a laugh.  “Sure thing, your highness.  C’mon, Titan, let’s go.”

The dragon roars and trundles downwards.  He looks a little relieved at the prospect of a break, if his limp legs and slumped neck are anything to show for it.  I squeeze my knees against Orochi’s torso, and he glides forward. 

Titan’s landing is rough, just as I’d anticipated, but it could be a lot worse.  I wince at the sound of his belly scales scraping against the sand as he skids to a stop.  He grunts and throws back his head, sending both Armin and Mikasa rolling down his neck. 

“Hey!”  I swing off of Orochi’s saddle, jogging across the sand towards them.  “You guys alright?” 

“Yeah!” Armin squeaks, jumping unsteadily to his feet.  He wobbles a bit, but a quavering smile is still spread over his face.  “I’m getting better at this whole landing thing.”

“That was not a good landing,” Mikasa says with a dark glance towards Titan.  I reach out my hand and she takes it – I know very well that Mikasa can handle herself, and more importantly, _she_ knows that I know it, but there’s nothing wrong with chivalry. 

“Are you alright?” I ask her, dropping her hand the moment she’s on her feet.  She stares at me in silence for a moment, so I add a smile onto the end, tilting my head to one side a bit. 

“I’m fine.”  She returns my smile.  “I’ve had worse.”

Eren lands in the sand with a loud grunt.  “Sorry, guys,” he apologizes sheepishly, raking a hand through his hair.  “Didn’t quite nail that landing like I wanted to.  Hey, Armin, you’re covered in sand.”

“Oh.”  Laughing quietly, he dusts himself off.  “Yeah, you’re right.  Oops.”

“Lemme help you.”  Eyes narrowing in intense focus, Eren pats at Armin’s shoulders with calculated, stiff brushes. 

Sasha’s voice echoes over the beach.  “You’ll just get a lot more of it all over you!”

“Yeah,” Connie bellows, “we’re at a fucking beach!  Get sandy!”

A merry sort of laugh bubbles up from my belly.  Orochi purrs and nuzzles against my leg, staring up at me with questioning eyes.  

As I lean down to scratch behind his ears, I glance up to Armin and say, “He has a point.  It’s a bit unavoidable.  If you don’t want to get sandy, maybe take off all your clothes and tie them to a tree.”

He goes beet red and stammers out something vaguely resembling a “no thanks”.  I shrug and return my attention to Orochi.  He rolls onto his back, begging to be scratched with a grin and a lolling tongue. 

“They’re already taking off _their_ clothes,” Eren murmurs, baffled, shading his eyes to watch.  Connie and Sasha are, indeed, dashing towards the water. 

“What?  What the hell?”  I frown, craning my neck to watch them.  Sasha sprints through the shallow water but gracelessly trips and falls the moment it gets too deep to run. 

“Do they know they’re going to freeze their asses off?”  Eren shakes his head as if to clear it.  “I’m not making the fire they’ll need to thaw themselves out.”

“I guess I will,” I sigh, rising wearily from a disgruntled Orochi.  “Hey, Armin, can we check out the Whispering Death holes together?  I’m curious about what happened and you’re the expert.” 

“Oh.”  He blushes again.  “Sure!  I’d be happy to help.  Eren, Mikasa, what are you guys…?”

“Lazing around, probably.”  Mikasa kicks off her boots, revealing thick scarlet socks.  “Go.”

“Okay.”  Armin shyly tucks another piece of hair behind his ear.  “Lead the way, Marco.” 

“Sure thing.”  I nudge Orochi with the tip of my boot.  “C’mon, bud, we’re moving.” 

Orochi moans exaggeratedly splays his wings limply on either side of him, glaring at me petulantly.  I roll my eyes and step over him.  It had been a suggestion for the dragon to join in; if he wants to stay behind, it’s fine by me. 

I don’t think I’ll need him.  The waves are calm and the forests calmer, with only a few rodents burrowing through the undergrowth and a sparse collection of birds.  Perhaps the only would-be threats are the Whispering Death holes, but I trust Armin to have checked them thoroughly.  Orochi is a security blanket, but the beach seems alright.

In all honesty, the beach seems more than alright.  I breathe deeply, unable to resist a smile at the intermingled scents of pine and salt on the wind.  Connie and Sasha are playing in the waves, and their cheers are echoing through our little bay.  A glance back reveals that despite all his scorn, Eren’s joined them in the water. 

Armin jogs up beside me and matches my pace with his little legs.  He’s gone barefoot, I notice, and his toes sift through the sand.  A small smile creeps across my face, and I nudge him with my shoulder. 

“This is a great place you and Eren found,” I say, gesturing out towards the ocean.  “It’s really beautiful.”

He smiles wistfully, nodding out towards the ocean.  “Yeah, it’s pretty here.  You should see it sometimes without those two flopping around in it.  It’s really lovely.”

“I imagine.  Beautiful enough for a painting, then?” 

“Absolutely.”  He kicks up a puff of sand.  “There’s all sorts of islands like this, with little beaches and cliffs and forests and everything.  Makes you wonder just how many beautiful, secluded beaches there are.” 

I hum thoughtfully.  “Probably a lot more than we know of.  You know the sea traders – they have so many weird old maps, odd trinkets.  Who knows where they got them from.  I’d say there’s definitely a lot more out there.”

“I wanna see it.”  His eyes skirt to mine, filled with an emotion I can’t name.  Immediately, he glares down at his feet, blushing.  “I have a bunch of those maps at home.  I wanna see all of it.  Y’know?”

“Sort of.”  Thoughtfully, I stare down at my own feet.  “I used to think that Berk was all I ever needed to know.  But nowadays, I’m curious.  I think some of that might have to do with you.” 

I smile kindly at him, and he blushes harder. 

“Y-yeah.  It’s just – well.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to.”  He scratches at the back of his neck.  “I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dump this on you.”

“No, go ahead.”  Gently, I lay my hand on his shoulder.  He tenses beneath my palm, but relaxes a hesitant second later.  With his big, blue eyes, he stares up at me, his mouth hanging open. 

“We don’t talk enough,” I elaborate.  “I wanna know what you’re thinking about.  You’re always thinking about something interesting, and I like hearing about it.”

He closes his mouth, glancing bashfully downwards.  “Thanks, Marco.  You’re… really nice.  It’s just that I’m worried about transportation.”  Armin scratches at his nape again, but it’s frustrated now.  “I mean, I guess beforehand I always counted on Eren being able to take me places.  That’s why he’s got that huge monster back there.  But with the Chief training him…”

He looks away, chewing at his lower lip. 

“You’re afraid that Eren’s going to be too busy to make time for you, aren’t you?” I ask, my voice soft. 

Slowly, he nods, not meeting my eyes.  “It’s not that I’m mad about him being selected by Erwin – good for him, really, there’d be no better future Chief of mindless oafs than Eren – but… I don’t know.  I wanna do it _with_ him.”

“I see.”  I nod a few times, sympathizing.  “Have you talked to Eren about this?”

“Nah,” Armin sighs.  “He’d just feel guilty and give up any opportunities.”

I purse my lips.  “Personally, Armin, I think that Eren would drop everything and go exploring with you if you only asked him too.  He needs you to direct him.  At the moment, Erwin’s doing that, but you’ve got much more of a sway over him than the Chief ever will.”

“You think?”  He shakes his head.  “I don’t know.  He seems pretty happy.”

“He’d be even happier out exploring the world with you if you’d ask him too.”  I point out towards where he’s jumping up and down in the water, splashing water at an incredibly unamused Titan.  “Look, he’s happy right now.  Happy at a place you two found together.  He’d follow you to the ends of the world, Armin, but you need to ask him to do that first.”

Quietly, he watches Eren play, watches Titan spray water out towards him and watches him laugh.  Sighing, he shakes his head and meets my gaze warmly. 

“You’re probably right, Marco,” Armin admits, smiling.  “I’m just paranoid is all.  Thanks.”

“And you’ve got every reason to be.”  I smile back at him, a bubbly happiness lifting my mood.  “And hey, it’s what I do.  Marco Bodt, part time dragon rider and full time therapist.” 

He nods, but doesn’t answer with more but a narrowing of his eyes.  I follow his gaze, and my blood runs cold.  We’ve reached the mouth of the first Whispering Death holes. 

“It was clever, making their burrows here,” Armin whispers, pointing down, gesturing towards the walls of the tunnel.  “Look at that.  The sand’s just run out, they used the combination of it and mud to compact the walls.  There doesn’t look like there’s any damage at all on the inside.”

“None at all?”  I bite at my lip, scanning the island.  “And there are no Deathsong.  What could’ve chased them off?”

“I have no idea.”  Anxiety flickers across his face.  “Why?  What are you thinking, Marco?”

“Nothing for certain yet.”  I crouch down beside the burrow, dragging my fingers through the mixture of sand and dirt piled up around the lip of the tunnel.  “I’m starting to agree with Erwin, though.  Something is very, very wrong here, and whatever it is, I’m not liking it.”

“Oh,” Armin says softly, his voice very quiet, almost scared.  “Something tells me you aren’t enjoying the island as much as the rest of us.”

“It gives me a bad feeling,” I confess, bowing my head.  “But I won’t let that ruin your day.”

He holds my gaze before speaking again.  Flickers of concern and fear cross his expression.  He ducks his head into his collar with a blush after a few moments, but the troubled ambivalence doesn’t vanish from his gaze. 

“Let me know if you want me to help any,” Armin offers, stepping back.  “Otherwise, I think I’m going to go back with Eren and Mikasa, okay?” 

My gut pangs, and I bolt back up to my feet.  “I hope I didn’t rain on your parade too much,” I apologize guiltily.  “Go, have fun.  I’ll do the same, once I check these things out.”

Armin’s eyes widen.  “You’re not being a buzzkill, Marco!  Actually, I like spending time with you.  Even if we’re spending said time hunting down giant maneating dragons.”  He smiles nervously.  “But honestly, you’re nice to be around.  You’re a good guy.”

“Ahhh…”  I scratch at the back of my neck, feeling my ears going red.  “Well, I try.  You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”  I bump him playfully with my elbow.  “Maybe you and I can do some exploring sometime, too, huh?”

Shyly, he glances at the ground, mumbling, “I’d like that, yeah.”

“Okay.”  I clap him gently on the shoulder.  “I’ll let you go back to Mikasa and Eren, then.”

Armin waves goodbye and turns without another word.  It’s a bit of an awkward farewell, but Armin is a bit of an awkward Viking.  My gaze lingers on him for a second longer, but there are more trying things at hand. 

Pursing my lips, I whistle a two-note tune. 

I sling my hand on my hip, watching the dark speck further down the beach lift its head.  He jumps onto his feet, watching me just as intently as I’m watching him.  After a few moments, he sits.  My laughter echoes across the beach, and a second later, he responds with his hoarse imitation. 

“Orochi!” I shout, waving my arm wildly in the air to gesture him over. 

Not really to my surprise, Orochi doesn’t come bounding over.  He roars playfully in response, cheekily standing up on his hind legs and stretching a single wing into the air.  I roll my eyes, mumbling a curse beneath my breath. 

“Get over here, you goofball!”  I jump up into the air, hand curling into a fist.  “Orochi, I need you!” 

It seems that’s all he’d needed.  His happy squeal brings my lips back into a huge smile.  Jumping up once into the air to mimic me once more, he takes to the sand. 

Orochi bounds forward, sand spraying up on either side of him.  I giggle and fall to a knee as he picks up speed, only getting faster and faster as he runs.  When he gets close enough for me to see the bright pink tongue lolling out of his mouth, I spread my arm for a hug. 

The closer he gets, the more I can see of him, and with every inch he grows nearer, my heart swells more.  The awkward, toothless grin spread over his face makes my smile grow just as wide.  He doesn’t just run, but bounces with every stride, and it unearths a desire to close the distance between us even quicker.  I laugh a booming belly laugh when he lifts his ears excitedly half a second before crashing into me. 

My breath is knocked forcefully from my lungs with an _oof_ , and I’m flung backwards onto the sand.  He plants a leg on either side of my shoulders and thuds down onto my chest. 

“Ahhh, Orochi–”  I’m cut off by that lolling pink tongue swiping over my face, disgustingly warm and wet.  “Agggh!  Stop – no!”

He ferociously licks at my face, and blatantly refuses to get off my chest.  I push up at him, scowling not quite as blackly as I probably should be, but he evades me again. 

“No,” I growl, pushing up at his muzzle as he attempts to make my hair even more slobbery than it already is. 

Dejected, he looks down at me, quite obviously pouting.  His eyes are huge as saucers, shiny and filled with the sort of joy that makes my heart burn with happiness even now, when he’s lying on my chest and trying to bathe my face in dragon spit.  Mewing and purring, he nuzzles at my chin.  He puffs out a breath that tickles my neck, and, without a second to lose, he cheerfully pounces on me again. 

“Aggggggh, dammit, Orochi,” I laugh, shoving up on his neck but no longer truly angry.  “Orochi!  Stooop!  That tickles, damn you!”

Happily, he launches off my chest with a squeal.  His landing nearby sprays a bunch of sand over my spit-drenched face, and I scrunch my face at the unpleasant scratchiness of the two combined. 

Orochi is unperturbed by my discomfort, crouched, every muscle of his ready to explode in any direction.  He’s doing his smiling imitation again, but it seems more like a challenge than anything.  I roll my eyes.  He’s expecting me to jump up and try to wrestle with him, but I’m content lying here on the sand. 

It takes him a bit longer to realize this.  He moans, and his ears drop limply against his neck.  Staring at me, unimpressed, he gurgles pointedly.

“Sorry, bud,” I apologize insincerely.  “I’m here to discover where these deadly maneating dragons have gone, not to play.”

Orochi grunts and jumps back towards me, but he doesn’t lick my face down this time.  He curls up beside me after circling a few times, wiggling his body beneath my head to pillow me from the sand.  I don’t even pretend to be indifferent to that – I stare at him with adoration in my eyes, fingers roving over his neck until they land on his special spot.  Purring, he closes his eyes and sighs contentedly, flicking his tail over my legs protectively as he does so. 

The Whispering Death holes can wait just a second longer.  I nestle a bit closer to him, laying my cheek against his hot scales and allowing my eyes to shutter closed, basking in the glow of love and warmth surrounding Orochi and I. 

* * *

 

“Well, what do we do about them?”  Agitated, the tall man scratches at the back of his neck.  Droplets of sweat run down his face, and, as she watches, one falls from his brow to his cheekbone.  One of his hands distress around the hilt of a battleaxe by his side. 

He receives no response, and grows more agitated still.  “Annie, they’re picking around the Whispering Death holes.  What are we going to do about them?”

She glances up.  “Let them.”

“What?”  He blinks a few times, dumbfounded.  “Why?  They’re just going to pick around, they’re just going to get _it_ angry –“

“They’ll get it angry.”  She stares boringly at him.  “It will go after them.”

“That’s a Night Fury, too, Bertl,” the other one adds, raising his head.  “You only see those once in a lifetime.”

“We’re bagging that, too?”  His eyes widen, his hand flexing around the battleaxe.  “I don’t know, guys.  I really don’t.”

“If the opportunity arises, we’ll get the Night Fury,” Annie amends.  “If not, we’ll just get what we came here for.  Either way, you’d better get suited up.”

* * *

 

“Hey, sleepyhead.”  The sharp bite of sand against my shins jars me suddenly from my slumber.  “Wake the fuck up.”

“Urrrrrrrrrgh,” I groan, shading my eyes.  Beneath me, Orochi growls warningly, his tail coiling tighter around me.  I shift pressing my face into his ribcage with an unseemly moan. 

“Armin said you wanted to check out those holes, right?”  Eren toes me again, more impatient than before.  “Freckles.  _Fre_ -ckles.”

“Hmmm.”  I peek an eye irately at him.  “Grrrrr.”

“Fierce,” Eren scoffs.  I can hear the roll of his eyes in his voice.  “Up, dragon.  Up, Marco.”

“Okay, okay, ‘m getting up.”  With a throaty moan and an immense amount of effort, I prop myself up on my elbows.  Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I groan gutturally.  “How long was I out, huh?”

“An hour.  We’ve got another hour til the sun starts setting.”  Eren snickers quietly.  “Your face is plastered in sand, man.  It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, eww.”  I screw up my nose and rub my face against my shoulder.  “Ugh.  I forgot to wash up after Orochi attacked me earlier.”

“Yeah, because you were napping.”  Eren offers a hand to me.  “How hard are those kids on you, Freckles?  Seems to me like you might need to nap more often.”

“Would if I could,” I say ruefully, shaking my head.  “They keep me busy.  Can’t say I’m not happy, though.”  He hauls me to my feet, and cascades of sand pour from my leather armor.  “Ugh.  Did you kick all that on me?”

“Sasha and Connie might’ve helped.”  Fixing me with a cocky grin, he jerks a thumb towards the cliff’s face and the multiple holes dotting along the edge of it.  “You going to look at those things before we take off again?”

“Yeah, I’d better.”  I rub at my eyes with the back of my hand, stifling a yawn.  “Thanks for waking me up.  I probably would’ve slept until we had to leave.”

“Thank Armin,” Eren says, shoulders tensing.  “He’s been glancing over here every five seconds to make sure you’re alright.”

“Has he?”  I cock an eyebrow, pretending not to have noticed Eren’s reaction.  “Oh, Armin.  I told him just to enjoy himself.”

“Yeah, well, you know how he looks up to you,” he grunts, kicking at the sand and accidentally dumping more onto an agitated Orochi.  “You put the stars in his eyes or whatever.”

I’m taken aback for a moment.  My gaze drifts from Eren, upset and scowling, to where Armin walks peacefully beside Mikasa through the surf.  He laughs at something she said, and looks happy.  Cluelessly, I shrug my shoulders. 

“I don’t know how he looks up to me, actually.  What’s going on, Eren?”  Donning the look I use with all my pupils, I school my features into something open and comforting.  It masks any frustration, any confusion, and the positivity of it helps me get into a better headspace for listening and empathizing. 

“Ugh,” he groans, fixing me with a disdainful stare.  “You’re doing your mom face.”

“My mom face?”  I glare at him in teasing condescendence.  “You’ve got some explaining to do, young man.”

“Shut up.”  Eren knocks our shoulders together, laughing gruffly.  “I still don’t know why you’re the leader, you big crippled dork.”

“Neither do I, to be completely honest,” I admit, shrugging.  “But.  We’re getting off topic.  Is something wrong with Armin?”

“Nah, I’m just being a jealous bastard.”  He picks at a bit of leather sticking out on the thumb of his fingerless gloves.  “Y’know, the guy kinda idolizes you.  I mean, he can sit at home and study all he wants, but to him, you’re the guy that actually goes out and… does shit.  You get what I’m saying?”

I tilt my head to one side.  “Sort of,” I say softly, narrowing my eyes.  “What do you mean, I go out in do shit?  You do shit, too.”

“Yeah, well, I spend most of my time training to slit throats.”  Eren’s green eyes fill with a sort of ambivalent respect.  “But you are either teaching kids how to bond with dragons, how to understand them.  He wants to learn to do that.  You’re calm and collected and smart.  He admires you.  He crushes on you, too.”

“Oh.”  My eyebrows shoot up.  “Oh, Eren, you jealous pig.  You need to talk about this with Armin, okay?”

“Wait, what?”  There's suspicion in his eyes.  “What do you mean?”

“Eren, listen to Mamma Marco,” I instruct. 

He raises an eyebrow at me, but sets his jaw and crosses his arms over his chest, as if bracing himself for bad news.  

“Armin and I talked while he was walking me over to the Whispering Death holes earlier,” I tell him softly, “and he brought up a few points I think are very relevant.  Eren, if Armin’s crushing on me, it’s only because he thinks he can’t have you.”

“Huh?”  Eren blinks a few times, furrowing his brow.  

“You heard me.”  I fix him with a kind smile.  “Listen, I need you to resolve whatever’s happening between you and Armin soon, alright?”

Eren stares at me, dumbfounded, a question in his eyes.  

“It’d affect the strength of us as a team if anything were to happen,” I explain patiently.  I gesture towards the empty burrows.  “Seeing all that’s around us, I’d wager something’s going to happen soon.  It creates tension between the two of us, awkwardness between you and Armin, and makes Armin a complete blushing mess around me.  Make good of this, alright?”

“O-okay.”  He nods a few times, squaring his shoulders and mustering his strength.  “Hey, I’m going to head back, alright?  Thanks for the pep talk, Mamma Marco.”

“Hey, anytime.”  I hook a finger through Orochi’s saddle straps, tugging the lazy reptile to his feet.  “We’re gonna go check out the burrows, see if we can’t figure out what’s happened.”  Orochi moans.  “Yes, we are,” I sigh tugging him up onto his feet.  “You wanna join in?”

“Nah.”  Eren’s smiling off into the distance, shading his eyes, watching Armin fondly.  I don’t think he’d really listened to what I’d said.  “I’m going to head back, alright?  Make sure no one loses a limb…”

“Wise,” I commend.  Now that he mentions it, Sasha and Connie do seem like they’re stalking Mikasa and Armin from the water.  “Keep the peace, can you?” 

“I’ll do my best, but I’m no Mamma Marco.  Don’t get your head bit off.”  He ambles off, headed vaguely towards the group on the beach. 

Orochi moans loudly, slapping his tail “accidentally” against my leg to recapture my attention.  I tsk condescendingly at him.  He glares at me in the corner of one eye and tries again to slump back against the sand. 

“Nooo,” I chide, pulling him back up.  “You’ve slept enough, don’t you think?”

He gurgles unhappily and drags his head back down to the sand, stubbornly pressing his chin into the ground. 

“You know what?”  I drop the strap of the saddle, holding up my hand in surrender.  “I am happy right now.  I am very happy.  I’m not letting you ruin that.”

He grunts and glares at me with one eye, oozing sass. 

“ _So,_ ” I stress, smiling down at him to show how very _happy_ I am, “I’m going to be nice and leave you here to sleep.  Enjoy your peace.  I’m going to go exploring.  All alone.  Because that’s safe.”

Orochi watches me for a moment more, grunts, and shuts his eyes.  _Not really what I’d hoped for, but exactly what I was expecting._

The holes are a bit more closely packed than the typical Whispering Death Holes, but, judging by the size of them, not all had been fully grown.  Some had inevitably been children, and I’m willing to bet that a few were mothers, too.  But a few hatchlings growing up and leaving doesn’t explain the ghost town of burrows I’m seeing. 

They pepper the coastline – some built with mud and sand, others on the side of the cliff and built from solid rock.  The one we slept so very close to is shallow – it starts verticle but even I can see as it slips into a more comfortable diagonal for the dragon.  Instead of investigating that, I jog down the beach just slightly until I’m standing at the edge of another hole. 

A juvenile had lived here, by the look of it.  Small and close to others and sloppy.  I kneel beside the edge and touch my fingers against the sand.  My heart sinks.  Whatever had happened here had happened recently – I can still see the tracks of its spines in the sand. 

“Where did you go?” I whisper at the hatchling’s burrow, peering into the darkness and searching for any sign of movement.  There’s none.  It’s completely abandoned. 

The mother’s hole is empty as well.  I jump down into it, and it reeks of dragon piss, but otherwise, there’s no sign of life.  Once I’m out again, I take a moment to stare about at this desolate slice of the beach. 

It’s eerie.  Much too quiet.  And despite the emptiness, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. 

Shivering, I try to refocus my attention.  The holes along the beach have probably already all been searched by Eren and Armin – as distracted with their personal problems as they are, they would’ve told me if there was anything of interest here.  However… 

My eyes drift along the holes dotting the cliff. 

They might’ve been able to get to the burrows close to the beach, or near shallow water.  However…  However, they wouldn’t have been able to get to the other holes further down, with nothing but black, gnarled rock and sharp barnacles to climb. 

I study the tunnels.  Could there be something up there looking for?  Would it be worth the climb and possible damage?  There is something going on here, and I need to have every opportunity to figure out what, but… 

I purse my lips, watching as a spray of water from a vicious wave pours into one of the holes.  The waters leaks out, spilling down below like a rainspout.  But there’s more movement than that in the tunnel. 

My back stiffens, and I lean forward.  I stare at the hole intently.  Had I imagined the movement?  Had it just been an illusion of the water?

There it is again! 

A sort of coiling motion, like a snake or, more probably, a dragon curling up in on itself.  Much, much larger than a mere Whispering Death. 

Movement in one of the tunnels.  Giddy with success, I sprint through the sand, eager to begin my climb up the cliff. 

* * *

 

Any sort of false confidence Marco’s presence had rallied in Eren drops away the moment Armin laughs at something Mikasa had said.  His head tips back with laughter and he rakes his bangs out of his eyes, and the sun catches his hair and his eyes shine and –

Their eyes meet, and Eren feels his palms going clammy. 

“Oh, hey!”  Armin smiles cutely, and Eren’s throat goes dry.  “How was Marco?” 

He forces a smile across his face.  “Good.  He was good.  Napped well, I think.”

“Good.”  Mikasa nods, her lips drawn up in a satisfied smile.  “He works himself too hard.”

Armin ambles towards Eren, sand clinging to his wet ankles.  “I’m glad you woke him up, though.  He’s already exploring those holes, look.”

Eren glances over just in time to see Marco disappear down one of the holes in the beach.  “Yeah, you’re right.  He seems on a mission to figure out what happened there, doesn’t he?”

“Seems like.”  Armin smiles after Marco.  “I wonder if he’s onto something, and there’s some reason they all left?”

“Who knows.”  He shrugs, scratching at the back of his neck.  “Well, I guess Marco will before long.  He’ll probably find something we didn’t in those disgusting old tunnels.”

“Yeah.”  Armin’s still staring sweetly off towards the holes.  “He’ll probably check them all, too.  He always finishes a job.”

“Hmph,” Eren grunts, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Anyway.  Have you found any shells?”

“Yeah, there are a bunch of them out here!” Armin says enthusiastically, pulling out a bag and undoing it.  “Mikasa’s really good at finding shells – we found one really big seashell, lemme show you –“

They spend several happy moments comparing shells.  The shells Mikasa found do seem to be slightly superior in quality to Armin’s, but that doesn’t make his any less cute in Eren’s eyes.  He listens to Armin talk about how in another part of the world, some oysters make huge pearls using a single grain of sand.  He touches the smooth surface of a snake eye shell found in the surf.  And when Armin dashes back into the waves for a shell almost as large as Mikasa’s crown jewel, Eren is sure to heap him in praise. 

Sasha and Connie stagger ashore once, and that’s because Connie’s toe brushes against some seaweed.  He comes flying out of the water yipping like a frightened mutt, and Sasha follows, laughing, a clump of the stuff clenched in one of her hands.  Eren scowls and scolds, and she responds by dumping it on his head. 

“Ughh, Sasha!”  He growls, shaking his head and flinging it off.  “That’s disgusting!”

She cackles and skips after Connie, winking mockingly back at him. 

Armin giggles at him, his eyes wrinkling in the corners.  “Hold still, Eren, you’ve got some stuff still in your hair.”  He rests a hand on Eren’s shoulder and stretches up, smiling ever so slightly.  Heart thudding painfully in his chest, Eren stays very, very still.  Mikasa looks on with something that could either be amusement or pity, and he doesn’t really care which it is. 

“Ewww,” Armin says, pulling back and making a face.  “That _is_ disgusting.  Uggh.”  He flicks it off the end of his fingers, grimacing.  “It’s out of your hair now, at least.”

“Yeah,” Eren breathes, pulse stammering.  “Thanks.”

“No problem.”  Armin chuckles, burying the seaweed in the sand with his toes.  “Couldn’t have you walking around like that, anyway.  You looked ridiculous.”

“Guys,” Mikasa interrupts, her voice colder than usual.  “Look.  Marco’s on the cliff.”

“Huh?”  Armin wheels around, and the moment is broken.  “Why?  What is he doing up _there_?” 

Envy closes Eren’s throat.  He shakes his head to rid it of toxic thoughts and squints at the cliff and shades his eyes.  There on the cliff is Marco, a spot of color against the black and grey, impossibly high.  He’s shimmying along the edge of a crack, pressed flat against the rock.  Eren’s mouth falls open. 

“Where’s Orochi?” Armin asks, panicky.  “Why is he up there without him?  Odin’s bathtub, doesn’t he know how dangerous that is?”

“He’s just on an idiot streak today,” Eren mumbles, a cold fist seizing his heart.  “What on earth is that –”

He breaks off with a gasp as Marco’s foot slips from a rock.  Armin stiffens and chokes on a breath. 

The man dangles from the rockface for a few moments, his single arm looking extremely fragile from this distance.  Tension thick in the air, they stand, motionless, as he swings up to try and kick his feet back onto the ledge.  One leg catches on the ledge, and Eren heaves a sigh of relief.  He doesn’t tear his eyes away until he reestablishes three points of contact.

“That was… shit,” Armin whispers, his voice a weak croak. 

“He’s headed towards the big burrow,” Mikasa says calmly, stepping between them.  Her presence alone causes some of the tension to slip from Eren’s shoulders.  “It was stupid but he’s almost there.”

“I knew we should’ve checked that one out,” Armin frets, raking a hand through his hair.  “I mean, we had a dragon, and Marco does _not!_ ”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Eren says uncertainly.

“He’s climbing a sheer rockface with only one arm,” Mikasa notes. 

Eren sighs.  “Yeah, okay.  But it’s not like we could.  Titan wouldn’t go anywhere near those holes, and I don’t blame him – he had nowhere to land or anything, and it’s dangerous.”

“Yes, it’s dangerous!”  Armin turns worriedly to Eren, gnawing on his lower lip with distress.  “Do you think Marco will be okay?”

Eren smiles weakly down at him, gently resting a hand gently on his shoulder and squeezing.  “He knows what he’s doing, Armin.  Don’t worry.  And if something happens, I can take care of it.”

“O-okay,” Armin says, relaxing.  “I wonder if he’s found anything in there.”

“Maybe he found sharks,” Connie says, bounding up with a grin.  “That’d run a bunch of Whispering Death off, right?”

“Or bears!” Sasha enthuses, her eyes twinkling.  “Mangy, bloodthirsty bears, ready to eat Marco alive!”

“Bears?”  Connie scowls and glares at her.  “No way.  There’s no way for _bears_ to get into there.”

“There’s no way for sharks to get in there, either,” Mikasa points out levelly. 

“No, no, I see it!” Sasha argues, pointing towards an oncoming wave.  “Look, if there was a shark on that wave it’d totally be able to get into one of those burrows."

“For Marco's sake, let's hope there's no bears or sharks,” Eren sighs.

“Oh – _oh!_ ”  She winces as the wave washes over Marco, drenching the poor Viking.  Fortunately, he clings persistently to the rock, and the wave fails to drag him into the restless ocean.  “Yikes.  I guess he _is_ lucky that there’s no sharks on that wave.  You think they’d take his other arm?”

“That’d be so badass,” Connie gushes. 

“Is he okay?”  Armin reaches out and grabs Eren’s bicep.  “He’s probably soaked to the bone.  The water will make his fingers go numb.” 

“He’s got it.”  Eren tentatively slips his hand overtop Armin’s.  His fingers are small and soft, not hardened by training like the rest of them.  It takes an immense amount of self-restraint to clear his throat and continue.  “Listen, let’s not worry about that.  He’ll be fine, anyway.  Hey, Armin, c’mon, let’s…”  His eyes scan the sandy shore.  “Er, find more shells?”

Armin giggles.  “Find more shells?”

“Yeah.”  He shifts his weight uneasily.  “Does that… sound fun?”

He narrows his eyes scrutinizingly.  

“I'll keep an eye on Marco for you, Armin,” Mikasa says generously, her dark eyes fleetingly meeting Eren's. 

“Okay, then – sure, let’s find shells, Eren.”  Armin tugs him towards the waves.  His hand slips from Eren’s bicep to his fingers, lacing casually through them, but Eren’s entire arm feels tingly and warm. 

He follows Armin to the edge of the sand, all too giddy.  Almost immediately, the cute little Viking finds something he likes, and charges through the surf before the next wave can claim it for the ocean again.  The water is icy between his toes, but Eren follows him all the same. 

Maybe he looks like an idiot, grinning the way he is.  Sasha and Connie seem to think so, what with the faces they’re pulling. 

“Look at this one!” Armin coos happily, lifting a spiraled shell from the water.  “Oh, wow, look at this color, Eren!  It’s got black and orange – looks like a sunset, almost, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”  It looks just like a black and orange shell to him, but he’d never say that.  “Hey, Armin!  Here’s another one – hold on –”

Eren grimaces and thrusts his hand into the icy waters.  He gropes along the sandy seabed until his fingers close around a shell.  Smiling, he yanks it up, but not before he feels something. 

“Whoa.”  He yanks his hand back and staggers backwards, but the vibration rumbles through the soles of his feet as well.  Uneasily, he looks up at Armin.  “Did you feel that?”

He looks nervous.  “Um, it was probably just the waves.  Like, the waves on the shore.  Lemme see that shell.”

Nodding, Eren walks forward, but the sand trembles again beneath his feet.  He reaches out a hand to steady Armin, but otherwise stays silent and still, watching the horizon. 

“What is that, Armin?” he whispers, working hard to keep the discomfort out of his voice. 

“I – I don’t know,” Armin stammers, moving closer to Eren.  “Look!  At the dragons!” 

Anxiety knots in Eren's stomach.  Linnie and Chusi shriek and throw back their heads, flailing their necks about and knocking their skulls together.  Mikasa’s waving her hands in front of Titan, commanding him to remain calm, but from his distance, Eren can see that his dragon already preparing to light himself on fire.  And down the beach a bit…

Orochi releases an unholy roar and fires a bolt at the cliff. 

A cloud of dust erupts from where the shot hits the rock, hiding their view of the burrow Marco had gone down.  Seconds later, a roar like the quaking of the earth itself thunders over the beach, raising every hair on the back of Eren’s neck.  In the corner of his eyes, he sees Titan set himself ablaze, sees the Zippleback moan and jump into the air. 

“MARCO!” Armin shrieks, clutching onto Eren’s arm again. 

A single figure leaps from the dust.  He plummets down to the ocean below, and Eren can’t tell if he misses the rocks or not, only that he falls.  

“Good, great Loki, Eren.”  Armin latches onto his side, and in any other occasion, Eren would be overjoyed.  All he can feel is a trickle of dread down his spine, a cold stone settled in the pit of his stomach. 

Another terrible roar rips through the air. 

“Run, run, _run!_ ” Eren chants as something else breaks through the dust.  He only has the time to catch a glance of a fearsome white snout before he picks Armin up and slings him over his shoulder. 

His heart hammers in his veins, and his feet slam against the water until it gives way into sand.  Armin is screaming and he’s heavy and Eren can’t be bothered.  The sound of the creature roaring and Titan screeching in terror are all he can hear.  Salt burns his lungs, and fear makes his throat tight 

“Eren!” Mikasa shouts in frustration.  He all but tosses Armin off and jumps in front of Titan, thrusting out a hand.  Titan snarls and growls, but holds his head steady.  Every single one of his muscles is taut and agitated – he's ready to bolt in a moment's notice.

“Come on, buddy,” Eren whispers.  “Let’s get out of here.”

Titan snarls once more, but the last of his bodily flames extinguish obediently.  Eren surges forward and pecks the dragon on his hot, scaly muzzle.  Then, he wheels around and moves to pick up Armin again, but he scoots away. 

“Armin!” Eren snarls, moving to hold him, but again, he stumbles back. 

“What about Marco?!”  He flails a hand down the beach.  

Eren lifts his eyes briefly up to the distant beach.  Marco is staggering to his feet in the shallow water, but he's already beginning to sprint over. 

“He’s got a dragon, dammit!” Eren bellows, grabbing Armin and practically shoving him onto Titan’s saddle.  Mikasa is already perched in her spot, and she secures Armin without a second thought. 

Eren clambers on last, and squeezes his legs around Titan’s neck.  In the same moment, a shot of fire collides with the foliage next to them with a deafening boom, setting the brush and trees ablaze.  Titan growls fearfully and flexes his wings out on either side. 

“Get us the hell out of here!” Eren roars. 

He wastes no time.  The liftoff is sloppy but it’s quick.  Eren grimaces and leans his weight up, urging Titan higher, higher.  Sasha and Connie are escaping the island further down the beach, but in pursuit is a pale monster in the corner of Eren's eye. 

Heart thundering in his veins, he bellows over his shoulder, “WHAT IS THAT?!”

“A Screaming Death,” Armin whispers in a quiet, harrowed voice. 

Despite all his fear, Eren pulls Titan into a slow glide, forcing him to pivot midair and face the terrible white creature. 

“Oh, Thor help us,” Eren whispers. 

The creature rears up its great, ugly head and screams, baring legions of needlelike fangs long enough to impale men.  Every nerve in Eren’s body screams for him to flee, but like a bird staring into the eyes of a snake, he finds himself unable to look away.  Its slender body twists mesmerizingly, long enough to stretch from one end of the beach to the other and bristling with deadly spines.  Jaws that could swallow Titan whole snap at the air, set onto a hideous white face.  Disgusting, filmy red eyes that wither his confidence like poison.  

Its snarl echoes across the ocean, a challenge.  Titan mewls and desperately tries to turn away, and Eren has half a mind to let him, but… 

“Where are the others?!” he shouts back at Mikasa, frantically wrestling Titan to stay still.  The Screaming Death growls, the sound reverberating through his bones, and it flies directly at them. 

 _A nightmare,_ he thinks, mind going numb as the ghostly white monster flies towards them.  _It’s a living nightmare._

“What the hell are you guys doing?!” 

Sasha’s voice jars him from his stupor.  They soar up beside Titan, Linnie and Chusi even more of mess than him.  Both she and Connie seem borderline furious. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of Jaegerland, man!” he yelps, pointing towards the Screaming Death, which is gaining much faster than anything that size should. 

“Marco!” Armin cries. 

The Screaming Death opens its massive jaws once again, and from its mouth issues that terrible, earsplitting shriek.  Both of the dragons go crazy, rearing back their heads and bellowing.  Even if Eren had wanted, he couldn’t have stopped Titan from turning tail and flapping away.  

“I’m sorry!” he shouts over his shoulder.  “We’ll have to leave him!”

“No, look!”  Armin points. 

The whistle of a Night Fury sings through the air, breaking through the Screaming Death’s roar.  A cloud of his purple fire shoots through the air, slamming beneath the monster’s jaw.  Half a second later, a black streak darts in front of it. 

“HEY, UGLY!”  Marco’s triumphant bellow catches the dragon’s attention and holds it. 

Eren’s heart swells with admiration for the Night Fury as it pirouettes up, hovering for a split second in the air above the Screaming Death, giving the creature just enough time to look up and receive a blast of fire in the face.  It roars and falters backwards, baring terrible fangs as it blinks the ash from those terrible red eyes. 

“YEAH, MARCO!” Sasha calls, echoed by Connie’s “ATTABOY!  MAKE THE VILLAGE PROUD!”

“He’s letting us get away, Eren,” Mikasa says, sounding too calm for the situation.  “Don’t waste it.”

“Right!”  I wave to Sasha and Connie.  “Let’s go guys!”

Linnie and Chusi fly as fast as their wings can carry them.  Eren glances regretfully back, wishing he’d heeded Marco’s earlier warnings – no doubt that if Titan had not been so bogged down, they would’ve been able to aid the battle.  He watches Orochi soar up and Marco holler an insult, watches them avoid the giant flying worm’s gigantic mouth. 

He catches sight of more movement, but this time, it’s from Jaegerland. 

First comes a flock of birds, fleeing upwards and outwards. 

A new roar, just as fearsome but different in so many unfeasibly unexplainable ways, joins the cries of the Night Fury and Screaming Death. 

Armin catches his breath against Eren’s shoulder, and squeezes his arms around his waist. 

From the trees of the island comes another pale giant, this one an unhealthy yellowish white.  He could swear that the beat of its wings makes a clanking noise, that the shake of its head makes the clicking of bones.  It soars up, and, undaunted by the Screaming Death, races to join the turmoil. 

“That’s a Boneknapper,” Armin whispers, the answer to Eren’s unsaid question.  “We thought those were legends, Hanji will be so excited.  Look!  Look at it!  It’s being ridden!”

And indeed it is.  If Eren squints, he can make out a man riding on the crook of its neck.  He bellows and the dragon rakes its razor sharp claws over the Screaming Death’s eyes.  With a cacophony of terrible roars and shrieks, the Boneknapper gouges long red stripes across the monster’s pale face. 

“Oh, good,” Eren says with a sigh.  “Reinforcements.”

But no sooner had he said that than the Boneknapper turned on a dime and sunk its claws onto Orochi, who had dove to aim a shot of fire at the Screaming Death’s chest. 

Eren’s blood runs cold at the sound of the Night Fury’s howl of pain. 

“Oh, no,” Mikasa whispers as the Boneknapper tears its claws from out of Marco’s back, tossing both rider and dragon away from him with a flick of his talons. 

Orochi desperately beats his wings, but they flap uselessly like ribbons in the wind.  The Screaming Death takes its opening and slaps Orochi across the belly with its red, thorny tail, sending him spiraling out another direction entirely.  His rider falls alone, grasping fruitlessly at the air.  

“MARCO!” Eren cries.

“Help them!” Armin squeaks. 

Mikasa’s voice pierces barely through the din.  “No!  Keep going!  Keep flying!  Get as far away from those things as possible!”

Ignoring her, Eren tries to yank Titan around.  His heart pounds in his ears, and he can feel a pulsing fury for both of the monsters wrapped around each other roaring to life in his belly.  White-hot anger tinges his vision red, and, snarling out a Viking war cry, he yanks at Titan’s horns. 

The Screaming Death shrieks louder than him.  With an apologetic wail, Titan wrestles his horns away from Eren and flees. 

Armin screams as Orochi and Marco plunge into the water, whereas Eren can only stare, shocked, at the blossoms of white froth in the ocean.  He waits for Marco to reappear, but both dragon and rider are swallowed by the inky black sea. 

“We can’t do anything,” he hears Mikasa say consolingly to Armin as he sobs against her chest.  “We need reinforcements.  We’re no good to him –“

Eren’s vision turns red again.  With all the fury boiling in his body, he turns his head up to the sky and roars. 

He can feel Armin retracting his arm, feel him flinching away, and it only makes him angrier.  Every muscle in his body feels filled with fire, alive with adrenaline, and he can do nothing but watch.  He feels as if people are staring, but he doesn’t care.  Maybe he sounds crazy.  He doesn’t care.  Maybe his scream is as awful as the monster’s.  He hopes it’s just as terrible.  He hopes Marco can hear it. 

Eren screams until his lungs spasm for air.  With a gasp like he’s sucking his soul back into his body, he glances around, searching for any sign of the island, but his dragon is flying faster than it ever has before, flying away.  There is nothing around but water for miles.  No sign of Marco.

He doubles over Titan’s horns, swallowing down tears with a raw throat and refuses to acknowledge what’d happened. 

“We need reinforcements,” Mikasa says gently, placing her hand on his shoulder.  He leans into it.  “I’m sorry, Eren.  I liked Marco, too.  But we can’t do anything more for him.  A Boneknapper and a… whatever godforsaken beast that was, it was too much for us.”

“Oh, gods,” Armin croaks.  “Is Marco going to be okay?  Who even was that on the Boneknapper?”

“I think that might’ve been who Erwin was worried about,” Mikasa says grimly.  “We need to regroup at Berk and get him out here.  As quickly as possible.” 

“O-okay,” Sasha calls up, seeming frazzled and terrified, but better than Connie, absolutely shellshocked, beside her.  “We’ll follow you guys.”

“That sounds right,” Mikasa says.  “Eren?”

He grunts ferociously. 

“Lead the way home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aggggggh it's been forever since I've posted! Sorry, school started up and I got distracted! I'll try to post more regularly after this! 
> 
> Thank you so much to all the people who left kudos or lovely comments! If you've got any questions you need me to answer, I'll be happy to!!!
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Boneknapper](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Boneknapper)  
> -[Screaming Death](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Screaming_Death)
> 
> If you have any questions about any other dragons or anything related to HTTYD, leave a comment and I'll get back to you as soon as possible!


	3. Boneknapper

My blankets are soft, warm, and dry. 

It feels incredibly unnerving. 

On an island where it always seems to be raining, snowing, or some unholy combination of the two, my blankets are hardly ever warm, soft, or dry. 

Startled awake by this realization, I try to flip over onto my side, but sharp pain stabs through my torso.  I suck in a sharp breath, arching slightly off the bed.  My vision goes fuzzy, blurring the lines of a wooden ceiling above me. 

“He’s up,” someone calls liltingly. 

Panic clenches my gut.  Frantically, I try to remember what had happened.  Why am I in a strange bed with a strange voice?  My body stills, and, in its stillness, I feel the crusting stiffness of scabs along my right side plus the oozing, warm wetness of fresh blood.  Had I broken a scab with my violent awakening?  Probably. 

The thought causes my breath to grow ragged with hysteria.  I hear the sound of it, hear the terrified whimper in each exhale, and some part of me shrivels in shame.  My eyes dart wildly over the ceiling, unable to discern anything from the smooth wooden boards yet too frightened to look beyond it. 

“He’s freaking out,” the voice comes again, impassive and female.  “I don’t know what about.”

Whoever she may be, the reminder of her presence jolts me back into my own brain.  My reasonable mind snaps back into control.  My panic flutters and festers in my gut, but I don’t dare let it control me.  Hands quivering, I turn my head slowly to face the rest of the room. 

It seems to be a cabin in a boat, or at least that’d be my guess.  It’s big enough to house the bed I’m on but not much larger.  A lantern sits on a table against the opposite wall, and next to the table is a chair, and on the chair is a woman. 

She’s clad in armor I’ve never seen the likes of before, and a white hood peeks out from the collar.  Her hair is blonde and tied back, her eyes blue and flat.  There is something cruel about her expression even though she seems expressionless.  Judging by that, I assume she’s the one who’s been talking. 

I gurgle weakly.  She stares at me for a moment more, but otherwise doesn’t react. 

Refusing to let the panic seize control again, I puff out a breath and refocus my attention on the ceiling, trying to recall how I’d gotten here. 

I’d been on Jaegerland.  That much I remember.  Eren and Armin were having difficulties, so I talked to Eren.  He ran down the beach to Armin, and I focused on the burrows.  The empty burrows.  But not all of them had been empty…

I shiver at the memory of the white coils of a creature shifting in the darkness.  Of the fishy reek of some monster’s breath.  Hideous eyes opening in the shadows, and a terrible rumbling growl echoing through the cave.  The growl got louder and louder until the pebbles were quivering across the floor. 

What had that been?  It’d seemed like a Whispering Death as it flew, tail moving in a corkscrew motion and tiny wings, but the sun hadn’t bothered it, and it’d been a behemoth.  The very memory of its massive fangs makes me shudder.

My stomach contracts into a tense knot.  Had Titan been able to fly away in time?  With jaws like those, it could’ve snatched them out of the sky.  I rack through my memories for any glimpse of them escaping completely. 

The last thing I remember was a giant skeleton of a dragon and wet, hot pain along my sides.  Beyond that, there’s a vague sensation of falling. 

I glance around the room once more. 

“Where is he?”  My voice is a low growl. 

The woman is silent for a moment.  I can feel her contemplation in the air between us and it only riles me up more.  “Where is who?” she asks cautiously. 

“Orochi.”   My hands curl into fists by my side.  “Where is he?”

“Orochi?” the woman repeats, falling silent for a beat.  “You mean the Night Fury?”

“Where is he?” I say, my voice frighteningly flat even to my own ears.  “What did you do with him?”

“He’s safe.”  I catch the movement of her crossing her legs in the corner of my eye.  “Who are you?”

“None of your business.”  I close my eyes, feeling the telltale signs of a headache beginning.  “Where am I?  Who are you?”

“I asked you a question first,” the woman says disdainfully. 

“Yeah, you also attacked me with a fucking bone dragon.  I think that negates any privilege,” I snap back, quietly seething at her.  “Get me my dragon and then I’ll talk.”

“For the record, it was one of my boys that was on the Boneknapper.”  She leans forward, blue eyes cold as ice.  “But that doesn’t do shit about your privilege.  The only reason you’re not being eaten by crabs right now is because of me.  Shape up or I’ll give you back to the sharks.”

The lack of inflection in her voice hits me again, and I feel a chill go down my spine, only fueling the cesspool of fear, fury, and hysteria festering in my stomach.  The meaning in her words washes over me in a cold wave – she isn’t friendly towards me.  And she will throw me overboard. 

Defeatedly, I mutter, “Marco Bodt.”

“And where are you from?” she asks calmly. 

With the little I know about this woman and her “boys”, something tells them I don’t want them on Berk.  My gut grows cold at the thought of her anywhere near Thomas, or Mina, or even my gang. 

“A tribe in archipelago,” I hedge. 

She raises an eyebrow, the picture of unimpressed.  “Which island do you live on?  Where is it?”

“Berk,” I confess, “but I have no idea where it is from here.”

“Yes, you do,” she says automatically.  “You can navigate.  We searched your saddlebags.  They were maps too muddled by the water to read, but they were well made.  Don’t play dumb.”

I slump back against the bed, but a small flame of defiance still flickers in me.  “I’m not answering that question until I know who you are.”

She inclines her head towards me.  “Fair enough.  I’m Annie.  Where’s Berk?”

“No, I mean what you do,” I insist, fixing her with a smoldering glare.  “If you’re a bunch of bloodthirsty, dragon-flying pirates, I’d rather die than tell you where it is.”

Our gazes are locked for a long, tense second. 

“We’re dragon salesmen,” she says at last.  “We catch them and keep them until they’re willing to obey.  Then we sell the trained dragon for a profit.”

“You mean dragon trappers?” I say.  She raises an eyebrow, and a knot of resentment tightens my chest. 

“I don’t prefer that, but yes.”  Annie tilts her head to one side.  “We trap dragons and sell them to the rich and curious.”

I fix her with a fierce glare.  “So you're here to steal our dragons?  That's why you want to know to Berk is?”

Her eyes glint.  “That, and a few other reasons.  Do you really blame us?  There's a lot of profit you're sitting on.”

“And that's what you care about, is it?”

Annie tilts her head to one side.  “I don't need to explain what I do and don't care to you,” she says neutrally.  “I do care about gold, though.  And I need a lot of it.”

“I’m sure Orochi would fetch a nice price, wouldn’t he?” I all but snarl, arching slightly off the bed. 

“He will,” Annie says smoothly, her eyes so expressionless it’s almost a leer.  “Now, tell me, Marco, where is Berk?”

I settle back down onto the bed.  My blood boils in my veins.  “Like fuck I’m telling you.” 

“That’s alright.”  Annie tilts her head to one side, and, somehow, her dismissal is even more infuriating.  “The archipelago isn’t that big.  We’ll find it.  Did you have any level of authority back in your tribe, Marco, or were you just a foot soldier?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” I spit. 

“He wasn’t a Chief or the son of a Chief,” growls another voice from the doorway.  I yank my head up to see a beefy blonde man staring sizingly back at me.  “His leather was too plain.  Armor didn’t have bells or whistles.  Just a typical run of the mill shield.  If anything, he’s beloved.  He's got the spirit of a caregiver, a people person.  Popular member of the community at the most.”

Annie hadn’t turned her gaze from me.  “Will people come to look for him once he’s gone?”

The man shrugs.  “Maybe, maybe not.  The only thing extraordinary about him is his dragon.  They might try to figure out the Boneknapper and Screaming Death, though.”

A Screaming Death?  Is that what the monster had been?

Annie nods and rises from the chair, not sparing me another glance as she briskly moves out of the room.  “Until further notice, this man is our prisoner.  I’m reluctant to kill him in case the Night Fury gives us trouble.  Bring him food and keep his bandages fresh, but no other contact.”

“Yes ma’am,” the burly man salutes, pivoting to let her past.  He meets my eyes, and I try to channel just how livid I am with this to him, but he looks away a second later and swings the door shut. 

“Dammit!” I shout, slamming a fist down onto the bed.  Pain shoots through my right side, startling me back to a bit of sense.  Shaking, I breathe out slowly and try to calm myself, finding some reassurance in ordering my thoughts. 

I need to check my wounds.  I need to know what’s wrong with me. 

All that I can remember from the incident is a haze of pain and long, sickly claws.  The dragon, a Boneknapper, she’d called it, had attacked both me and Orochi, if I remember correctly.  I refuse to allow that thought to freak me out.  Instead, I carefully peel back the thick, furry blanket and the thin sheet. 

At least my captors had had the good will to bandage me up.  From the edges of the dressings peek the tips of two long swipes.  Gods only know how wide they are, or how deep.  I’ll find out next time they change my bandages, with all luck, but something tells me from the linger prickles of pain growing all the more powerful that it’s not good.

Grimacing, I cover myself back up and stare listlessly at the ceiling.  My mind spins in answerless circles.  Had Eren and the gang made it back to safety?  Had they enlisted the help of the village?  Is that a good or bad thing?  Is Orochi alright?  Will I be able to see him, or are we both caged separately forever?  Can I find a way out of this prison? 

I swallow painfully and shut my eyes.  At the moment, I can’t do anything.  It’s a hard realization, and more than anything, I want to be on my feet and doing something, anything.  But being blind as I am, it’d be stupid to do anything except heal. 

 _I’ll remain vigilant_ , I promise myself.  _I’m no help to the village a sickly soldier._

My stomach turns over itself and I feel sick.  More than anything, I want to be home in my lumpy, wet bed, beneath a sagging ceiling.  I swallow down my lump of homesickness and force myself into sleep. 

This sucks.  This sucks so much.  And I’m terrified. 

But more than anything, I’m so, so glad that _I_ was abducted rather than my friends.  I can’t picture anyone – not Connie, not Armin, definitely not Eren – that'd be able to handle this better than me.  

My heart swells wistfully at the thought of them all safe in their beds.  Sasha would steal bread from the marketplace and Mikasa would make her temperamental dragon another saddle.  Ymir’d probably be working hard away in her forge.  Levi sparring with Eren, pretending he doesn’t give a shit even though we all know he does, and Erwin looking on lovingly. 

If anything happened to any of them, it’d be chaos.  The village wouldn’t be able to function.  It’s good that I’m gone.  I won’t be missed. 

I wish nothing more than to be with them in it all.  But I’m happy knowing that they’ll be able to carry on. 

It’ll be just like last time.  I’ll be missed and grieved but life will carry on, and they’ll all be happy. 

_The only extraordinary thing about him is his dragon._

They'd been right about that, at least.  No, I wouldn't be missed but so much.  

As I slip into a fear-induced sleep, the thought brings me comfort.  Everything in my world is shit, but at least they’re okay. 

The village is safe.  My friends are safe. 

I am not. 

But that’s okay, too. 

* * *

 

Titan all but collapses when they reach solid land.  His legs are quivering and his head hangs down until his chin touches the mud.  He stares at Eren with half-lidded eyes, dead on his feet.  Eren only spares a second to wrap his arms around Titan’s neck in a quick hug before he grabs ahold of Armin and marches towards the village. 

“We need Erwin,” Eren snarls.  “We need him now.” 

“Of course,” Mikasa says, her face a cool mask.  “I'll help you find him.  Connie, Sasha, join us once you’re in dry clothes.”

They nod and scamper off, their sopping clothing slapping against their skin with every step. 

“I’m going to go fetch Hanji, they’re probably off near the Dragon Academy… doing tests…”  Armin briskly jogs off, nodding a distracted farewell back at them.  “I’ll meet you guys as soon as I can, alright?  But… we need to know more about Boneknappers… and Screaming Deaths.”

“Good thinking,” Eren says.  “We’ll try to meet you at the Great Hall – does that sound alright?”

“Absolutely.”  Armin catches his gaze and smiles frailly.  “You be careful, okay?”

“I’m just going into town, I’ll be fine,” he scoffs, but he makes sure to return Armin’s smile before turning his back and running down the muddy path to the village.  Mikasa runs behind him, splattered by the dirt in his wake. 

When the sucking mud of the path turns into broken cobblestone, Eren breaks into a sprint.  He darts through the streets, pausing for half-second intervals to search for a blond head of hair before rocketing off again.  Scents of smoke and fish fill Eren’s nose as he dashes past the fisherman's house.  Happy yodeling echoes down the street of the tavern.  A rare shaft of evening sun from the heavens casts orange light over the roofs of the sad little houses in the poorman's district.  There's no sign of Erwin anywhere.  

People of the village cry and knock into one another as they move out of the road, watching him bolt through the masses curiously.  They turn to one another and murmur, asking questions and starting rumors.  None of the whispering voices are the Chief's.  His desperation and anxiety mount as he bursts into the busy Main Square. 

People bustle about everywhere, caught in their daily lives.  Flustered Franz is striking a bargain with a cranky old woman.  Ymir is smirking out at a crowd through the smoke of her forge.  Yet another small group is noisily trying to corral a disgruntled Deadly Nadder that’d broken from its tethers.

“Dammit!” Eren barks, hesitating on the balls of his feet, trying to decide which direction to bolt next.  Already, the assembled people are starting to take notice of him. 

“We should split up and look for him,” Mikasa says sharply beside him.  “The quicker we find the Chief, the better.”

“Right!”  Eren swings around to face Baker's Lane, but a man steps from the chaos of the marketplace and freezes him in his stride. 

“What’s going on?” Levi demands, crossing his arms over his chest, his steely grey eyes narrowed.  “Aren’t you back from your trip early?”

Eren breathes an audible sigh of relief.  Levi, Erwin’s short second in command and lover, always has an uncanny knack of finding the Chief.  If he can’t help, at least they’ll be able to track down Erwin quicker. 

“Something happened,” Mikasa says gravely.  “We need to find Chief Erwin as quickly as possible and rally the village.”

Levi’s eyebrows raise a bit.  “Oh?  What’s going on?”

By now, a few people have quit dawdling around and now stare, interested, at the conversation unfolding.  Being what Armin calls a “local celebrity” usually means drawing in some onlookers on day to day life, but they ogle gracelessly at them.  Their piercing glares make Eren a little uncomfortable. 

“We found something on the island.”  Mikasa shakes her head slowly.  “Something bad.  And someone, too.  I don’t know which was worse.”

Levi nods, processing it quickly.  “Did everyone come back alright?  Are there any riders or dragons that need attending to?”

“Marco’s gone,” Eren blurts out loudly. 

Whispers break out through the square, and people whip their heads around comically to stare at Eren.  Some of their jaws drop.  Others turn and tap their friends, asking if they’d just heard the same.  Ymir drops her tongs and strips out of her leather gloves, the reflections of the embers in her dark eyes only making her look more murderous. 

“What?” Levi asks quickly.  “What do you mean, Marco’s gone?”

Eren glances quickly at Levi before his gaze roves through the frightened crowd assembling around them.  Unease makes his stomach flip flop, especially when he notices that a few of Marco’s pupils are amongst them.  Thomas and the little pigtail girl are whispering quietly to one another. 

It makes Eren angry, knowing that they’ll have to be without a teacher, that they might even have to grieve that teacher, but more than anything, he just doesn’t want to tell them. 

The last of his resolve crumbles as Marco’s elderly mother pushes through the crowd, staring at him with wide eyes.  His heart shrivels a little bit, and his tongue is heavy in his mouth. 

Luckily, Mikasa intervenes.  “We don’t know if he’s gone and left this world,” she announces, stepping in front of Eren to address the people.  “We were attacked as we were flying, and Marco valiantly fought back to let us get away.  We saw him and his dragon knocked out of the sky and hit the water, but we can’t know for sure that they’re on their way to Valhalla.”

“What’s this?”  Erwin’s voice booms through the crowded square, and the Chief storms into the masses.  He meets Eren’s eyes and makes a beeline for them.  “Where is Marco?  What’s going on?”

“Chief!”  Eren bounces back to life.  “We need to talk!  Something’s happened!”

“I gathered that,” Erwin says, glancing towards the audience they had before them.  “Levi, what’s going on?”

“They were out having a bit of fun on an outing to an island, and they were attacked,” he reports, grey eyes relaying a secret message for Erwin.  “Not all of them came back.”

“I think it’s better if we talk about this in private,” Mikasa breaks in.  “With all due respect, Chief Erwin, I think we should move this conversation to the Great Hall before we talk in earnest.”

Erwin nods, beckoning them towards the top of the hill where the Great Hall sits.  Eren moves to follow, but a woman surges through the crowd and latches onto his arm.  Eren glances hesitantly after Erwin and Levi, but fixes his attention on her – it is, after all, Marco’s mother.

Ms. Bodt is an extraordinary woman, and Eren has come to admire her as a sort of a second mother.  Marco’s unfaltering good-naturedness and skills with people had come from her, but his naiveté didn’t.  Realistic to the point of cynicism, she never wastes the opportunity to outwit other warriors.  Most of the time, they don’t even realize they’d been insulted. 

She treats Eren like he’s one of her own children, fondly nagging him over the smallest of things and stuffing him and his dragon both so full of food neither can move for hours afterwards. 

“What’s going on, Eren?” she whispers, her dark eyes so similar to Marco’s that it makes his heart throb.  “You mentioned my son – he – what happened?”

Eren hesitates a beat.  He can see the terror in her eyes, the terror of the unknown possibilities, but he can’t imagine a way to assuage her fears, only to stoke them.  Laying a hand on her shoulder, he squeezes comfortingly, smiling as bravely as he can for her. 

“I don’t know much more than you heard, Ms. Bodt,” he says honestly, “and what I do probably won’t help you.  I’ll talk to you more after this if there’s time.  If not, just know that I’ll bring him back.”

She smiles tearfully, swiping a knobbed finger along her freckled cheek.  “Please do, my boy,” she says, moving to clutch at her heart.  “I – not knowing is always the worst part.”

“Thank you for understanding that I need to go.”  Eren leans forward and pecks her wrinkled forehead.  “Don’t worry, I’ll get your son back.”

“Thank you, Eren,” Ms. Bodt says kindly, her smile still sad, but grateful as well.  “Go, go!  I’ll keep these people off your back.”

“Ms. Bodt, you’re the best,” Eren sighs, giving her one last squeeze and moving back through the masses of people.  Over their heads, he shouts a final, “Be careful out there!”

As he turns his back, he hears her call out for him to do the same, and a tight smile spreads over his face.  Doubt gnaws at the corners of his thoughts. 

He elbows past people grabbing at his sleeves, asking if Marco is alright.  Their eyes are all wide and glossy.  He shakes them off, but their anxious expressions haunt the back of his mind and make his gut churn. 

It’s not just his mother that’s feeling Marco’s loss.  It’s the entire village.  If he doesn’t return, if he is found dead…  Eren shudders at the possibility. 

Marco is vital to the tribe.  So many families have come to know him personally, so many children having grown up with him guiding them through the most precious bond they’ll ever make.  Even those that haven’t had a child go through the academy know him from his radiant smile.  His sunny disposition and determination draws people together and inspires them.  People love him ardently without ever having exchanged more than a few conversations. 

Any Viking’s death would be enough to start the flames of war. 

But Marco’s…

Eren’s fists clench

Marco’s death would be enough to potentially break the tribe’s spirit.  And Eren isn’t going to let that happen. 

_I’ll get you home, you freckled bastard.  I’ll get you back where you belong._

* * *

 

The Night Fury is upset. 

It’s clawing at the iron chains blocking off the sky, smashing itself repeatedly against the walls, snarling at any that grow close.  His unholy shrieking echoes through the monstrous glacial cavern.  By accident, a few riders have already flown over his enclosure and gotten a shot of his blue fire blasted in their direction.  Reiner stands at the edge of the pit, scratching at his belly and staring down at the pacing black beast. 

“I’m beginning to think that thing is more trouble than it’s worth,” he mutters to Bertholdt.  “Could’ve just bagged the Screaming Death and then gotten out of there.  At least we know how to take care of that.”

Nervously, Bertholdt wipes sweat from his brow.  “That’s what I said while we were there!  Besides, it’s a Night Fury,” he argues.  “You guys were right.  We couldn’t have just left it.  These things are worth a lot of money.”

“Yeah, well, I’m an idiot, you shouldn’t of listened to me – we have no idea how it works.”  Reiner shakes his head.  “And I don’t trust that boy to help us out any.” 

“He will be needed,” Annie decides, looking up from a notepad, her blue eyes icy.  “We’ve already lost two assets trying to feed him.  Besides, any cripple that can tame one of those” – she nods to the Night Fury, now snarling at them and trying to shoot fire – “is worth at least trying to convert.”

“You think we’ll be able to get him to help us?”  Reiner barks out a laugh.  “He’ll either refuse or try to escape.”

“He can try,” Annie says indifferently.  “And he will.  But he won’t manage it.  We’ve never come across a Night Fury, and it’s fair to say that he knows quite a bit about them.  Therefore, we should keep him around.”

Bertholdt shifts his weight.  “We should bring in some scouts from the outside and position them along the walls of the cavern, just in case.  I don’t think he’d be able to get away.  He’s hurt pretty bad.  But I don’t want to take that chance.”

Annie turns her eyes to him, a silent prompt for him to continue. 

“He seems like an average member of the tribe,” Bertholdt explains.  “If he’s just one of the masses… with a Night Fury capable of fending off a Screaming Death… we don’t want them coming after us.  I guarantee you that the rest will be just as dangerous, and we need the element of surprise.”

“If we’re going to attack them, and I say no fucking way!” Reiner barks. 

“Maybe.”  Annie arches an eyebrow.  “However, I’d much rather take them by surprise then wait around for them to find us.  Bertholdt, I’m taking your advice.”

“Sorry, Reiner,” he says apologetically.

Reiner shakes his head slowly, seeming uncertain.  “I don’t know, guys, but I’m not the brains in this situation.  I’ll trust you two.  Do you want me to go get the guy, or…”

Annie hesitates, staring out at the icy cavern, and they wait patiently for her to think.  She watches the ships bobbing on the empty water, some loaded with dragons to take to foreign ports and sell to people who never have seen anything like them, some empty and ready to be loaded with the dozens of other dragons shrieking in their cages or obey the snaps of whips in training rings. 

“Let him rest,” she says coolly at last.  “For another day, at least.  Then… we’ll just have to see.”

* * *

 

“So,” Erwin sighs, looking tired around his eyes, “that’s the source of our problem.”  He broods in silence for a moment more, then turning to Hanji.  “Do you have any more questions?  Please, try to ask only important ones.”

“They’re all important,” they say enthusiastically, “but I’ll have to choose my favorites.  How long would you say the Screaming Death was?”

Eren just shakes his head and sits himself on the floor, emotionally exhausted from having to recount the tale primarily by himself.  Sasha and Connie had spit out a couple things they’d observed, and Mikasa had explained his meaning a few times.  Armin had spoken up once or twice with particulars, and it’s no surprise to anyone that he’s the one that answers Hanji. 

“I’d say it was about twice as long as the one you had described in your book,” he estimates.  “Huge jaw structure.  Wingspan, too, seemed wider, but I don’t know if that was the illusion of flight.”

Hanji pushes their glasses up higher on their nose, grinning devilishly.  “ _Fascinating._   The one I came across back when I was a young adventurer was only a hatchling, so it makes sense that it’d be larger.  I wonder if it’s the same?!  How exciting would that be?!”

“Not very,” Levi gripes.  “Dragons hold grudges.”

“Oh…”  They visibly deflate.  “Right.  Ah, hopefully it’s a very different Screaming Death then.  You said that when it roared, the dragons wanted to flee?”

“That’s right,” Connie says, nodding.  “They freaked out for a moment but wanted to hightail it.  Only Orochi was able to resist it.”

Hanji’s eyebrows fly upwards.  “Really?!  How interesting.  The hatchling I came across was only able to disorient those caught in its roar, only able to ward them off with it, but it sounds like yours was full grown.  Who knows what it could’ve done.”

“I should say that the Screaming Death roared right at us a few times,” Armin adds.  “Orochi heard the roar, but he was moving too quickly for it to ever focus on him like it did us.”

Hanji practically jumps up and down with excitement.  “I’m going to have to go to that beach and find this specimen!” they gush, eyes sparkling.  “But.  Onto the Boneknapper.  How large was it?”

“About eleven meters from head to tail, maybe twelve,” Armin says.  “Typical standards for what it said in the book.”

“A bigger wingspan, though, than I would’ve expected,” Mikasa says ponderingly.  “To hold all those bones, maybe.”

“Yes, yes, it would need massive flappers to suspend its skeletal armor in air!”  Excitedly, they pace back and forth.  “I wonder where this mysterious rider found one of those sweethearts?  They make their armor out of the bones of other dragons, you know.  A full grown one would probably need lots of dead dragons to assemble a good enough set to roar in.”

“Any more questions you need to ask?” Erwin says, guiding the conversation back. 

“Oh!”  They turn back to the group, eyes shining.  “As you were taking off, did you notice the Boneknapper do anything strange?  Or maybe another dragon elsewhere on the island?”

“I think I remembered seeing a Deadly Nadder,” Sasha pipes up.  “But I don’t think any supervillains would be flying on a Deadly Nadder to victory.”

Hanji’s expression blackens.  “Erwin?”

“Yes, Hanji?” he says, leaning towards them in apprehension.  Beside him, Levi has stilled, and he, too, looks on tensely. 

“It’s probably trappers.”  They lift their eyes and glance around at the group.  “Dragon trappers.  I suspected that there might be a few, what with the change in the dragon population, but never did I imagine…”  They break off, eyes glazing over. 

“Wait, dragon trappers?”  Eren pushes violently off his feet.  “As in, those people that abuse dragons for a profit?  _That’s_ who’s got Marco right now?”

“Apparently,” Levi says flatly.  “We’ve had them before, Hanji.  It’s nothing new.  We’ll track them down and make sure they never come back.”

“It won’t be that easy this time, I believe,” Erwin says calmly, rubbing his thumb against his chin.  “They were there before you were, correct?  On an island peppered with Whispering Death holes that’d been emptied, with only a Screaming Death left?”

“…You think they might’ve been there to trap the Screaming Death?” Armin whispers, sounding frightened. 

The only reply is a low, guttural noise from Hanji.  They lean over and stare at their feet, the torchlight casting a wicked glow over the lenses of their glasses. 

“B-but that can’t be right,” Connie protests weakly.  “I mean – I’m no smartypants –“

“Believe me, he’s not,” Sasha adds. 

“– but I don’t think they could’ve possibly… hunted down that thing.”  He rubs the top of his head nervously.  “I mean… catching a Screaming Death… that’s just crazy, right?”  He laughs awkwardly, looking around the Great Hall in search of comfort.  “Right?”

“Not really.”  Hanji hunches their back and scowls at the ground.  “What it does mean is that we’re talking about a massive operation that’s moved in.”

“Or maybe not moved in,” Erwin counters, arching his eyebrows.  “It seems more probable to me that they simply have their base a good distance from this island and are only now getting to this area in terms of their operation.  You don’t take a Screaming Death to an insecure new fortress and you don’t fly with it any longer than you have to.” 

“If that’s true, I think they might’ve taken Marco, too,” Armin adds softly.  “Or at least Orochi.”  He glances over and meets Hanji’s gaze.  “We don’t know much about Night Furies, and I’d wager they don’t, either.”

“How do we even know that they’re dragon trappers?” Eren snaps.  “They could be pirates for fuck’s sake!  Why are we wrapped around the notion of them being dragon trappers?”

“A Deadly Nadder is a common mount for dragon trappers,” Levi explains curtly.  “Loyal, well-sized, easily replaceable.  Pirates like shitty-looking dragons to make them look like badasses.”

“Gronckles, usually,” Hanji adds knowingly.  “Hotburples, too.  Sometimes Catastrophic Quaken.”

“A Screaming Death wouldn’t give a pirate anything, either,” Erwin says, nodding.  “Eren, we have to accept that this is probably what’s happened.  We’ll need to scout and make sure that it’s definitely going on, which I believe should happen as soon as possible, and then prepare ourselves and the village.”

“Prepare for what?” Sasha asks tentatively.

“They captured Marco.  They saw you.”  Levi inclines his head slightly, frowning deeper than usual.  “They know we’re here.”

“And they’ll come for us, too,” Hanji says darkly, her eyes shining with an unsettling light.  “A Night Fury belonging to a cripple?  We’re both a threat and a harvest.  We need to find their base as quickly as possible.”

“Then let’s get on that.”  Erwin lifts his head, staring towards the giant doors that stand on the other end of the Great Hall, deep in thought.  “More than half the tribe is outside anxiously awaiting news.  I suppose I will deal with that.”  He sighs heavily.  “Eren, Mikasa, you will be attending our search party, so rest up.  The rest of you, go home or help Hanji.”

“And don’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” Levi nearly growls.  His sharp eyes dart over their faces distrustfully.  “We don’t want panic on our hands.  It’s bad enough that people are worried about Marco.”

Erwin nods fondly towards Levi, eyes softening for the shortest of seconds.  “He makes a valid point.  Please, don’t create hysteria.  Avoid the topic of the Screaming Death altogether.  Understood?”

“Sir, I promised Marco’s mother I’d tell her the details,” Eren says, breaking through the consensual murmurs of his peers.  “May I do that at least?”

Erwin’s eyes narrow, but he nods, slowly, sizingly.  “Simply stress how important secrecy is.  She’s a fine woman, she’ll understand.”

“Yes, sir.”  Eren bows his head stiffly.  “May we be dismissed?”

“Yes, go your separate ways.”  Levi flicks his hand towards the door.  “Eren, Mikasa, be back in an hour.”

“Understood, sir,” Mikasa says. 

They rise together and walk towards the door, Connie lagging behind – his foot had fallen asleep, and he hobbles more than walks towards the doors of the Great Hall, whining the whole way.  As the conversation between the three leaders grows softer, murmured questions are whispered amongst them. 

“Dragon trappers?  Does that mean that they set actual traps, or are they hunters?” Connie wonders.  “’Cos I can deal with trappers any day, but hunters?”

“Maybe both,” Mikasa speculates.

Armin nervously tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, and Eren notices in the back of his mind that he looks far more concerned than any of them.  “I hope they wouldn’t have set anything up to trap you guys when you go to the island.  Make sure no one follows you home, okay?”

“Tell it to them over there,” Sasha grunts.  “Prodigy girl and Chief Jr. are the only ones going along for the ride.”

“I’m not the future Chief,” Eren says, slightly peeved.  “They probably just want me there for experience or some shit.  Plus, I’m the only one that knows where it is, really.” 

Connie whistles.  “Good point.  But what’s Mikasa’s excuse?  You guys are the Chief’s favorites and you know it.”

“I’m strong,” she says simply.  “Stronger than any of you.”

“Also a viable point,” Sasha commends, nodding with her lips pursed. 

“Do you actually know what ‘viable’ means?” Armin asks, chuckling.

“No, not really.”  She hesitates, seeming uncertain.   “Why?  Did I use it wrong?  Shit, I did, didn’t I?”

“No, it’s just very sophisticated for you.”

“He didn’t think you had the brain cells for it,” Connie chuckles, earning himself a slap upside the head. 

“I’d be on your side if it weren’t true,” Mikasa murmurs, a smile in her eyes.  Sasha clings to Mikasa’s arm and whines through a massive pout, begging Mikasa to stand up for her and to put them in their place.  With a smile spreading across her lips, Mikasa brushes Sasha off and keeps walking. 

“Does nobody love me in this village?” Sasha bewails, collapsing to the ground. 

Eren shakes his head, irritated.  “No, we’re all just focused on more important things than vocabulary.” 

He braces a hand on the cool wood of the Great Hall’s doors, pausing to look back at them all.  “Listen.  Marco’s gone.  And between us, I don’t know if we’ll be able to get him back.  But until we’re certain, we’ve got to fight tooth and claw to save him and our tribe.  That means that the fun and games has to be put on hold for a little while, alright?”

Connie helps Sasha up, and they nod in unison.  Eren takes this as enough consent, and pushes the heavy door open.  He grunts, shoves harder, and the door swings open. 

Moist air hits the roof of Eren’s mouth.  The clouds overhead have begun to rain as is typical for the island, and most of the village is still out and getting wet as is typical for the people.  Eren steps out onto the stone and stares around at the people assembled, at their tired eyes set beneath dented, rusting helmets dripping with water.  Their wet clothing dangles limply, slapping against their bodies with every move.  They look dejected and miserable, each and every one of them. 

Emotion wells up in Eren again, and he ducks his head and averts his gaze, stealing off silently towards the Bodt house. 

* * *

 

In all my life, I’ve never met a man quite like Bert. 

It probably has something to do with the fact that I’m a Viking – we’re a prideful, stupid community, but we’re tough as nails.  It’s hard to find a Viking warrior without stellar determination, courage, and resolve.  Tenaciously standing your ground is the number one most stressed lesson taught to children.  We just don’t have pushovers. 

Which makes Bert a most amusing and convenient prison guard to have. 

After apologizing profusely for mere bread and butter, he’d listened raptly to my complaints.  His weakness had taken me by surprise at first.  It was only until after a few exchanges of small talk that I pressed my advantage and sent him scurrying off to fetch me some coffee and sugar. 

The fool had left behind the silverware along with the plate. 

I muse on this quietly, smiling slightly up at the ceiling, enjoying the loneliness of the cabin for the first time.  When I shift on the mattress, I can feel the shape of a butter knife beneath it. 

A butter knife by itself can’t do much, but if sharpened into a shiv, it could prove a much more useful weapon. 

A soft knock on the door interrupts my train of thought – I sit up in bed, watching the brass knob wobbling.  The door swings open, and Bert lopes inside with an awkward smile. 

“I got you your coffee,” he says softly, tapping the door shut with his heel.  “It’s a bit cold, I hope you don’t mind.  Also, I wasn’t sure how much sugar to put, so it might be a bit too much…”

“That’s fine,” I say, taking the cold ceramic cup into my hands and trying not to think about how fragile the mug is.  “I like it sweet, anyway.”

I lift the mug to my lips and taste the bitter liquid.  It’s not quite how I would’ve liked it, but it’s still delicious.  With a satisfied hum, I drain the contents of the cup and set it heavily down upon the table. 

Bert, who’d been watching me intently, smiles slightly.  “Did you like it?”

“Nectar of the gods,” I reassure, already feeling energized. 

“Oh, good!” he says enthusiastically, shifting his weight in a happy little dance.  “I was worried – there’s precious little things you’re getting in here, and I’m so sorry for that, I’ll try to convince Annie to give you a sofa or something…”

“The chairs are absolutely terrible,” I agree, scowling down at the moldy legs of the seat.  “I wouldn’t trust them with my weight.”

“Right, right.”  Bert gnaws at his lower lip.  “Ah, Marco, I’m sorry – you seem awfully decent.”

“I fancy myself to be a decent kind of guy,” I say jokingly, hitting Bert affectionately against the shoulder.  As if something had struck me, I allow hesitation and curiosity flickers across my expression. 

“Say, Bert…”  I cock my head to one side.  “Do you think I could maybe… ah, never mind.”

“No, no!”  He stands up eagerly.  “What is it that you want?”

“I was wondering if maybe… I could stretch my legs?”  I throw my hand up in the air, glancing down at the floor.  “No funny business, nothing like that, I just… I’m getting claustrophobic.”

“Well, sure!”  Bert smiles.  “That sounds like a great idea to me!  I mean, Annie probably wouldn’t,” he says, faltering, “but… But!  I trust you.”

“Thanks, Bert.”  He shuffles his feet bashfully, causing me to smile wider.  “It means a lot.”

“Yeah, well…”  He clears his throat and turns around to hide his blush.  “I like you.  But,” he adds, glancing towards the door, “if we’re gonna go, we’d better go soon.  I do have stuff to do…”

I shoot to my feet.  “Of course, of course!  I didn’t mean to dawdle.”

Bert wrings his hands, nodding distractedly.  He meanders towards the door, fumbling with a loop of keys on his belt.  Eyes distant, he leafs through each one.  Eventually, he picks out an old iron key from the bunch. 

“I hate this lock system we have here,” he mumbles, tsking in annoyance as he carefully lines the key into the slot. 

“Oh yeah?”  I tilt my head to one side.  “What’s annoying about it?”

“Well, it’s one of Annie’s toys,” he explains in exasperation.  “Fancy lock.  Basically, if I unlock it from the other side and then close it again, it can only be opened from this side.  Same vice-versa.  So even if you got ahold of the key after I left, so long as I unlocked it from this side, you’d be trapped.”

My eyebrows shoot up at this new information.  “That’s clever.”

“It sure would be, if it worked,” he says darkly, breaking off to roughly jostle the knob.  The entire door shudders on its hinges.  Nothing happens.  With a frustrated bark, Bert slams the iron toe of his boot twice into the heavy wood. 

“You really don’t like that lock,” I observe mildly. 

“No, I don’t,” he says through gritted teeth.  “But – it should work now –“

He’s right.  It swings open with a happy squeal of hinges. 

“See?  Follow me.”  He ducks through the doorway with an amiable smile. 

I walk in his footsteps, impressed by Bert.  “Interesting method, but it brings results.” 

“Sorry for my temper,” he says sheepishly.  “I just really, really hate that lock.”

The hallway outside my room is dark and long, made with the same dark wood.  It creaks beneath my feet with every hesitant step.  A single oil lantern sits midway through the hallway, its flickering tongue about to snuff itself out.  On other end of the hall is a staircase, presumably leading to the surface. 

Bert gently taps my shoulder, nodding forward.  I take a deep breath, wrinkling my nose at the dank scent of mildew, and start towards it.  He walks beside me with a gangly, loping stride. 

I’m trying not to grow fond of this man, but his easygoing demeanor is a bit of a balm to the shard of ice that was Annie. 

“So, I’m inside of a ship?” I ask casually, looking around at the bleak walls.  “Captain’s quarter prison, or…?”

“It’s a boat, yeah.”  He nods towards the walls, grimacing slightly.  “It’s kind of falling apart, we don’t use it for voyages anymore.  Just a storage compartment beneath you is all.  There are a few dragons on the surface, but they’re chained, no need to worry.”

“Chained?”  I bite down my repulsed reaction.  “Well that’s… good.”

He stares at me sympathetically.  “Don’t lie, you don’t like it.  I guess I don’t blame you.  But not every dragon’s as smart as that Night Fury of yours.  They’d rather take a chunk outta you then be fed, that’s for sure.”

I resist the urge to bite his head off.  _Offending my only ally isn’t wise.  I need him._

“Remember,” he adds, eyes going slightly soft, “if Annie finds us, you made a break for it and I’m taking you back.  I don’t wanna get in trouble with the boss, but of course you need to stretch your legs!”

I nod, unable to resist a small smile.  “Got it.  Marco Bodt, escapee extraordinaire.”

He smiles back, then turns his gaze from me and skips ahead a stride as we reach the stairway.  He jumps the steps two at a time, I notice.  I follow at a slower pace.  Pain laces through my side with every wincing step I take.  Breathing only makes it worse. 

Bert watches sympathetically, but allows me the dignity to walk myself up the staircase. 

From the darkness of the belly of the boat, I stagger into the blinding light.  Blinking to clear the haze from I vision, I gawk around at the forming figures.  Awe fills me – my mouth drops dumbly open. 

“Whoa,” I breathe softly.

On either side of us are frozen giants, massive icebergs converging to form a canyon of sorts between them.  Only a thin sliver of the grey sky peeks between the glaciers’ lips above, and a few dragons with riders dart through the crack.  An armada of sleek sisters bobs alongside our lackluster ship in the dark water, each ship holding crates packed to the brim with colorful dragons, screeching and clawing at the iron bars.  So numerous are the dragons that, in many, if one more were to be added, the entire container would burst. 

One of the glaciers has a large alcove carved out of one side, and on that flat land are multiple rings of spikes and chains.  Spontaneous fire belches out of the tops from time to time, signaling the occupancy of each prison. 

Posted around the cavern on little nooks and ledges are mounted Nadders and Raincutters, silent sentries overseeing affairs below. 

The air is thick with the suffocating smell of dragon urine and blood.  Shrieks of pain and fear echo throughout the cavern, each one constricting my heart slightly more. 

“It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it?” Bert says, smiling around at it all.  “Ours is one of the largest operations.  The islands around here are teeming with enough dragons to actually support one of this size, which is just amazing.”

“This is –”  I struggle for words, gaze fixing on a Thunderclaw in a cage on the boat beside ours as its trampled by its peers.  “This is barbaric.”

Bert shifts his weight awkwardly.  “That’s not usually anybody’s first impressions, I’ll be honest.” 

“What are you doing to these dragons?” I whisper listlessly, stumbling over to the side of the boat, pressing myself up against the side. 

Helplessly, I watch a cage of Terrible Terrors packed together like fish in a basket get lowered onto a boat.  They squeal and whine, flapping their tiny wings and struggling against the bars.  At the bottom of the cage are lifeless corpses, starved or trampled to death, their little legs and wings hanging down through the slats of the irons bars. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Bert says, cocking his head and having the audacity to look confused. 

“Why… why are they all so close together?” I demand.  “Why are they caged?  Why would you ever do this to them?”

Bert gapes at me, bewildered.  “They’re animals, Marco.  Smart animals.  But animals.  What do you expect us to do?  Let them just fly away?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice breaking.  I whirl around to face him, feeling betrayed and distraught.  “Please, just turn them loose.”    

He shakes his head firmly.  “We need the money, Marco.  Plus, we’re distributing dragons to people that would never have the chance to meet any.  See it as a way of sharing them with the world.”

“Distributing dragons?!”  I make a small, distressed noise of frustration.  “They’re not pets!”

Sighing, Bert shakes his head and pulls out a small club I’d noticed earlier.  I immediately tense and fall backwards, sinking into a more defensive position.  He ignores me. 

With his club, he gestures towards the cabin of the ship.  With a feeling of dread, I follow it to a long, skeletal tail wrapped around the side of it like a snake’s. 

A roar bursts suddenly from Bert’s lips. 

Caught by surprise, I jump back, still taut as a bowstring. 

With the grating tinkling of bones on wood, the tail stirs.  Bert bellows again, and it disappears around the corner of the building.  From around the other side emerges a skeletal white head.  Terrible yellow slits in the skull that I can only assume are eyes fix lividly on Bert. 

My fingers curl into my palms.  Stuttered heartbeats pound in my ears.  With steps so heavy it tilts the boat I stand on, the terrible dragon that’d struck Orochi and I out of the sky approaches Bert. 

A terrible, thundering growl shivers through the beast as it draws nearer, the vibrations of it rattling the bones forming the armor across its chest.  Its furious yellow gaze is unwavering on Bert.  The drag of its macelike tail of dragon and animal bones behind it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. 

I, myself, can’t bring myself to look anywhere but its long, sickly claws.  My side pangs painfully at the memory of them. 

This must be the Boneknapper. 

A shudder goes up its neck, making the vertebrae along its back clack hauntingly against one another.  It bares its teeth in a terrible snarl, arching his neck and opening its jaws in a fearsome roar.  I blink in surprise. 

“It’s silent,” I whisper, watching as the dragon tries to roar again, a weak whistle all that escapes its throat.  Its livid eyes bulge and it tries for a third time, but when it is again silent, the Boneknapper breaks off with a frustrated snarl.   

Bert smiles sideways at me.  He roars back fiercely at the dragon, his own voice far from silent, and swings the bat towards it threateningly. 

The Boneknapper flinches away from the club.  Fear widens the slits of its eyes.  Bert is by no means a small man, the sight of the massive beast cowering is bewildering all the same.  He roars again, stepping closer, and the Boneknapper takes a step back, averting its gaze. 

“Stop it,” I say, but my voice is too quiet. 

“See, this one we found in a dump of ours, picking through the carcasses of dragons that weren’t strong enough,” Bert shouts at me, still glaring down the Boneknapper.  It whimpers and sets its chest and head against the ground, quivering in fear, looking everywhere but him. 

Bert smiles like a barbarian.  “See how he obeys me.  He’s smart enough that he’s not caged.  He can stretch his wings and fly a bit, too.”

“Why…?”  I swallow down the lump of repulsion in my chest.  “Why can’t he roar?”

Bert fishes in his pocket for a second, and the Boneknapper relaxes but comes no closer.  He pulls out a round joint bone from his pocket and lifts it up triumphantly like a trophy.  There is something smug in his expression, a sneer in his eyes as he turns to the dragon. 

 _Only weak men find pleasure in power over their lesser._ My stomach churns.  _How vile a man must he be to feel superior to this poor, beaten creature?_

On its part, the Boneknapper is still decidedly docile.  It keens and leans towards it, the slits of its eyes widening with desire.  Slowly, it lifts its head from the deck and sniffs after the knuckle. 

Bert shouts and throws his club out in front of him in a silent threat.  It lowers to the ground submissively, chin against the wooden floorboards.  However, its yellow eyes still have an unbreakable predatory focus on the bone. 

“See, he wants this piece right here,” Bert explains.  The man has the gall to smile over at me.  “He won’t hurt me because I’ve got it, and if he attacks me, he could hurt it.  It’s the unique piece to perfect his armor, and without their armor, they can’t roar.  He’s mine because of this.”

“That’s revolting,” I whisper, my heart in my throat. 

The dragon’s eyes briefly flicker away from the bone and land upon me for the first time.  Instead of trying to size me up like any hunter would, like it’s natural for any dragon to, it flinches away so suddenly and violently that it slams into the side of the cabin. 

“Oh, no, you poor thing, I won’t hurt you,” I whisper heartbrokenly. 

It’s only then, with the creature cowering against the wall, fearful shivers racking through his clacking armor, that I look closer at him.  Cracks run through the bones on its sides.  The sloppy dents and chips could never have been made by neat dragon teeth or claws – they’re the unmistakable trace of blunt weapons. 

I stare at the club in Bert’s hand, freshly appalled by the savagery of it all. 

He’s been taught to fear.  All he knows is to fear us.

“Can I… try something?” I ask quietly, forcing myself to look at Bert. 

He turns to me curiously.  The open friendliness makes me want to heave. 

“I want to… try and give him his bone back,” I say as civilly as possible, extending my hand towards Bert.  “Can I please try it?”

Bert shifts uncomfortably, and I don’t miss his glance up towards the head of the armada, where the most dignified ship in the harbor sits.  “Not today.  Listen, I’d better get you back down under…  People probably have seen me with the Boneknapper…”

“That’s okay.”  I bite my lip, staring heartbroken at the poor dragon.  “Are your men treating Orochi like you’re treating that fellow?”

He shakes his head remorsefully.  “No one can get close to him.”

Bitter satisfaction boils in my stomach.  “Good.”

“Annie don’t think so.”  His club arm coming down to his side, Bert turns to me with concern.  “Hey, you don’t look so good, Marco…”

“I need to get back down there,” I admit wearily, refusing to look him in the eye as I stumble towards the hatch.  “Bring me a bucket, will you?”

Bert agrees hastily and jogs off.  I plod down the stairs slowly, my heart heavier than ever, and my chest tight with a fresh fear for Orochi and I. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys :D  
> How are y'all doing? Good? I'm glad to hear it! Bad? Aw I'm sorry :( *hugs*  
> I actually have a quick favor to ask - could you guys tell me in the comments how I'm doing as I'm explaining the world of the Vikings of How to Train Your Dragon? There are times I'm thinking I'm doing okay, but sometimes, I wonder if it's really okay. 
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Boneknapper](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Boneknapper) (again)
> 
> Not many other dragons here actually!! If you have any questions about any dragons mentioned please ask!!


	4. Dragon Battle

A restless heart doesn’t fare well caged. 

Once the uneasiness seeps from my veins, the restlessness seizes me and takes me on pointless circuits around the tiny room.  It drags my fingers over the damp wooden walls, darts my gaze over a room I’ve scanned thousands of times before.

But there’s nothing to be found, nothing of interest hidden away.  Rotting furniture, soft blankets, a steel bedframe, and a butter knife.  Further inspection of the butter knife reveals that it’s made of soft, cheap metal.  It’d be simple to sharpen if only there was something to sharpen it on. 

Struck with the terrible blend of boredom and disquiet, I bide my time thinking and pacing to and fro.  The boards beneath my feet groan wearily, creaking with my every step, and the boat rocks lazily in the harbor. 

As I recall, most Vikings still consider them to be myths, fairytales used to frighten children away from potentially perilous dragon graveyards, but Hanji reported having a run-in with one.  It’d been a violent run-in, so they hadn’t learned much about its behavior, but myth is always at least based on fact. 

Bert had almost controlled it with the bone.  The moment its eyes had clapped upon the bone, it’d gone meek.  He’d said it allowed them to roar, that the dragon needed it to complete his armor. 

Whoever has the bone controls the dragon. 

It sickens me, the thought of taking advantage of a dragon that way, but thinking of those monsters abusing Orochi similarly makes my blood boil.  Besides, if I took ahold of the dragon, ultimately, it’d end up in the Boneknapper’s favor.  Hopefully. 

But how would I get the bone from Bert in the first place?

With a frustrated growl, I throw myself down on the teetering chair, ignoring the pain lacing through my side.  It’s difficult not to gnash my teeth as I lean heavily on the table, glaring around at my tiny room. 

Oil lamp.  Rickety floors.  Warm blankets.  Soft pillow.  Old chair.  Butter knife.  None of which are any use. 

Bert came in once more this evening – or at least, I assume it was this evening.  My stomach was still flip flopping all over the place, but I exchanged pleasantries and chatted peacefully.  I asked if the ship was used for anything besides holding prisoners, and he said that the ale is stored in the belly of the boat, but was otherwise unoccupied.  It was interesting, but didn’t seem relevant to an escape. 

What is Bert’s schedule?  I don’t know.  I’ll have to wait at least another day before I do.  The thought makes my lip curl. 

Knocking Bert out would be rather simple if I had the means to.  Another glance around the room reveals nothing I haven’t seen before.  With a despairing huff, I shift my weight, and the chair grumbles in protest. 

My brow furrows.  I shift my weight again, this time leaning down to watch the teetering legs, listening to the wails of the wood.  An idea is beginning to form in my mind – I have to investigate. 

I kneel down beside the chair and tip it back and forth a few times, studying the teetering of its legs.  Chewing at the inside of my lips, I feel my way along the bar connecting two of the legs, providing nonexistent support.  I give it an experimental tug, and feel the wood give slightly. 

Would a moldy wooden chair leg be a better weapon than a butter knife? 

Probably.

I add tiny club to the list of things available in the room, stashing it beside the butter knife and hiding evidence of the missing bar. 

I’m struck by the thought now that, if an old, wet chair can be broken, so can other things.  It’s an invigorating epiphany.  I do another quick inventory, renewed curiosity casting my lackluster cell in a new light. 

My investigation is only more exciting.  When I poke and prod at the walls, feeling some spots give more than others.  When I jump, the pain that turns my vision fuzzy is worth feeling the frail bounce to the floorboards.  My prison is literally rotting around me. 

The further I think on it, the more sense it makes that the old ship is falling into decay.  As far as I’m aware, it isn’t being used for any seafaring, and hasn’t for a long while.  There would be no reason to keep an old boat in top condition, or even good condition. 

It’s interesting, yes.  It’s sparked my curiosity.  But I’m not yet certain how it connects to the escape plan yet. 

I sit at the edge of my bed, tapping my foot anxiously and thinking. 

The waiting is going to be the hardest part.  I can already tell.  Impatient heartbeats pump adrenaline into my veins, but there’s nothing to do, nothing to do but to plan and wait, wait for answers that’ll further the plan.  Glumly, I peel at my crusty scabs and poke the soft, pink skin around them.  With a frustrated sigh, I collapse back onto the bed. 

I can feel the makeshift club through the mattress as I settle onto my back.  It provides security, almost.  A sense of protection that a butter knife just can’t offer. 

Once I’m swaddled in the soft animal pelts and warm blankets, the adrenaline quickly drops off into lethargy, the restlessness surrendering to the overwhelming fatigue.  My eyes shutter closed slowly, and I fall into the relieving arms of sleep.

* * *

 

Aside from the sparkling electricity arching from spine to spine on Mikasa’s dragon and the quivering reflection of the moon on the choppy waters, the night sky is black as pitch and the ocean even darker.  The millions of stars usually peering down at them seem to have tucked their heads away and disappeared, though why, Eren can’t be sure.  He’s never been one to believe in fate, but the absence of stars puts an uneasy coil in his stomach. 

“Eren.”  On the wings of his massive Nightmare, Erwin appears in the moonlight, his eyes luminous.  “The island, is that the one we’re looking for?”

Leaning forward in the saddle, Eren squints at the horizon.  “Where?”

“To our left.”

Eren’s heart jumps into his throat.  “Yeah.  Yeah, that’s it.”

“Of course.”  Erwin nods and pats on his dragon’s shoulder.  Without a sound, the Nightmare beats its massive wings and glides silently away.   Eren shivers and adjusts his course, aligning Titan with Jaegerland. 

Levi’s Razorwhip darts beneath them, the gleam of its metallic scales betraying its location.  Eren’s eyes follow it intently for as long as possible, trying to ignore the nervous squirm in his stomach when the dragon vanishes close to the island.  He doesn’t know what they’ll do if the Boneknapper is still lurking about, never mind the Screaming Death, but perhaps his worst fear is finding a body on the beach. 

His heart throbs painfully.  _Don’t think like that,_ he scolds himself. 

Sindri, Mikasa’s Skrill, soars down beside Titan.  His hair stands on end from the dragon’s electric presence.  The soft sound of electricity zapping from scale to scale distracts him from his thoughts.  Silhouetted by the sizzling energy, the very sight of her is calming to her. 

The island looks quiet.  It holds the same stillness, the same lack of life, that’d once been welcoming to Eren as he’d descended upon it – now, everything about it just seems wrong.  It doesn’t only look quiet, it looks _dead_.  Like the washed-up shell of a long-dead turtle. 

Silently, Eren nudges Titan to swoop downwards towards the massive cliffs, and he obeys without the slightest hesitation.  The dragon navigates with ease, unstartled by the roar of waves crashing against the rocks.  In his periphery, he sees Mikasa skimming the tops of the trees on the island, and the Razorwhip’s gleam circles over the beach a few times. 

Clucking his tongue in an order to hover, Eren pauses midair.  He stares down at the empty beach, almost longing to see something other than the pale, moonlit sand, but that’s all there is. 

A shadow passes over the moon, and Erwin’s dragon swoops over the cove.  Titan rumbles, unsettled by its sudden appearance, and Eren can only pat his neck in reassurance – the Monstrous Nightmare the Chief rides is a Titan Wing.  None can really be comfortable around such a beast. 

Except Marco, that is.  Marco was comfortable around it. 

_Don’t think about that._

A shout echoes over the bay, followed by the blossom of a dragon’s flame. 

Titan yelps and jerks midair, jabbing the pommel of his saddle into Eren’s stomach.  It knocks the air from his lungs – he throws his head back and sucks in a huge, wheezing breath.  Spots dance before his eyes for a few seconds. 

He gasps greedily at the cold air, refilling his lungs with oxygen.  Throwing himself forward in the saddle, he presses his forehead against Titan’s cool skin.  The dragon gurgles a sheepish apology.  He taps a soft melody onto Titan’s cheek scales to calm him and closes his eyes for a brief moment, releasing a long sigh.  His heart beats rapidly and his breathing slows. 

_Titan was spooked by another dragon._

Whipping upright, Eren snaps his head back and forth, scanning the bay, but there’s nothing.  The hunting party hovers midair, staring out at sea as if expecting to see something.  A Razorwhip bolt had been fired, but the sleek form of Levi’s dragon stands out among them – it hadn’t given chase.  In fact, nothing seems to have happened at all. 

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Eren urges Titan to swoop up beside Mikasa.  Titan, on his part, seems eager to rejoin the group.  There’s an anxiety in his dragon’s muscle, Eren realizes.  The strokes of Titan’s wings are stiff and nervous. 

Concerned, Eren moves to stroke at Titan’s cheek again.  He relaxes some into Eren’s touch but does not relinquish the skittishness – he flinches slightly from a particularly loud zap of electricity from Skrill’s spines and snarls softly at Mike’s dragon as he joins the formation of hoverers. 

“Are you alright?” Mikasa asks calmly, silhouetted by the bolts of lightning dancing more lividly across the back of her dragon. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  Eren waves a hand.  “He’s fine, too.  He spooked, though, I’m not sure why.  He’s usually better.”

She hums an agreement. 

“What happened?” Eren asked, glancing around at the hovering group.  They stand a silent watch over the bay – Hanji’s few, hushed words are the only break in the silence, and they’re muttered so softly for only Mike to hear that they can barely be consider a noise at all. 

“There was a dragon,” Mikasa explains calmly.  “It startled us.  Not really any sign of a saddle.”

“There was a rider,” Levi calls out.  His Razorwhip flies in tight circles nearby, too twitchy to be trusted around other dragons for very long.  “I saw the shithead.  He didn’t look like a dragon trapper.”

“I saw him, too,” Mike says.  The stoic warrior appears beside Erwin a second later.  “He wasn’t a dragon trapper.  Dragon trappers can’t ride unsaddled dragons.”

“So he was probably from a tribe nearby?” Eren puzzles. 

Mike shrugs indifferently. 

“More likely, it was a traveler from a far off place,” Hanji shouts towards them.  “They didn’t try to hurt us, and that dragon looked exotic!  It had four wings – never have I ever seen one with four wings!  I’d like to see it in daytime sometime.  But yes.  He was probably poking his nose in dragon trapper business, just like us.”

“It’s odd,” Erwin concludes, “but let’s not let it gnaw at us.  He’s gone now.  We’ll worry about him if he comes back.  Now, let’s give the island a small search and see if we can find anything more before heading back.”

Eren despairs.  “We’ll be heading back so soon, sir?  Without even following the trail?”

“We need tracker dragons,” Levi sighs, sounding as if it’s extremely tedious to him. 

“And we can’t see a damn to track much in this darkness,” Hanji pipes up.  “We can try to look around, but we won’t find much until first light, I guarantee it.”

Eren’s shoulders droop.  “Okay,” he says unhappily, touching his heels against the underside of Titan’s neck to prompt him forward.  He obeys, still sheepish from earlier failures, and glides towards the pearly, moonlit beach without hesitance. 

As Hanji had predicted, the island search proves useless.  Even if there was anything to be found, the black night kept the four-winged dragon’s secrets.  They departed with fewer answers than questions and a fresh nagging fear of that which they didn't know.  

* * *

 

“I have instruction to take you out today,” Bert says, tipping his head towards me respectfully.  “I hope that won’t be a problem…?”

Pausing in the middle of a bite, I lower the spoon to the table and narrow my eyes quizzically at him.  I don’t really have a qualm with that – it’s been several days since I saw anything but the inside of this cell.  He’s raking a hand through his hair and sweating profusely, and although I’ve learned that’s hardly an unusual trait about him, I’m curious as to why he’s so nervous.  When he meets my gaze, I raise my eyebrows slowly at him, a silent cue to continue. 

“Your Night Fury, it’s, um….”  He shifts his weight awkwardly.  “It’s problematic.  We can’t get it to eat.”

My eyebrows shoot up a bit higher.  “And you want me to feed him?” 

“No, just…”  Bert shakes his head, grimacing.  “Just calm him down or something.  Annie doesn’t want you near him.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to do that without getting near him.”  Nonetheless, my heart soars.  “When do they need me?”

Bert blinks a few times, as if surprised I’d agreed.  “A-as soon as you’re done, we can head up.”

I throw my spoon down and stand eagerly. 

He pales, and dives for the plate, shoving it back into my chest.  “No, eat!  Eat first!  You haven’t eaten since last night, and I can’t have you starving on me.”

Something perks up in me at that.  I hesitate, grabbing the plate and staring down at the few meager mouthfuls of cold haddock. 

“You’re going to come back in a few hours anyway, right?” I say slowly, tilting my head to one side.  “…This isn’t a last meal, is it?”

Of course I know it is not. 

“N-no!” Bert splutters, shaking his head vigorously, eyes wide and scandalized.  “Y-yeah, I – you get a breakfast at first light, a lunch at midday, and a dinner in the sunset hours.  I mean – ah…”

He slumps his shoulders and stares blankly at the wall beside him, refusing to meet my gaze.  “Wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

I nod slowly, rocking back onto my heels and looking up at the ceiling.  “You weren’t supposed to tell me that this isn’t my last meal?  Because that’s all I heard.”

His brow furrows and his lips part, but whatever he was about to say dies on his tongue.  Expression melting with relief, Bert gives me a quick smile.  He makes a sweeping gesture towards the plate and glances at me sternly. 

I waste no time wolfing down the rest of the tasteless fish.  I hold my empty plate for him to examine.  He smiles at it, casting me an amused glance. 

“Where are we going?” I ask, obediently plodding to his side as he unlocks the door to let us back out into the corridor. 

“I – uh.”  He tilts his head to the side, glancing back at me.  “Do you remember the pits in the ground on the far ledge?  We use those to train dragons.  He’s in one of those.”

“Ah.  I see.”  I wrinkle my nose as we slip out into the dank hallway.  “What have you tried feeding Orochi, by the way?”

“Orochi…?”  Bert cocks his head.  “Oh!  Is that what you named your dragon?”

I smile patiently.  “Yes – I explained that to Annie, I think.”

Bert hums thoughtfully, slowing for me as we climb the stairs.  “We don’t usually name our dragons around here.  Hers, we named, because there are so many Nadders out there, and she wanted it to come when she called it.  But it’s odd to have a name.  So don’t blame her.”

A pained grunt is my only response.  I hobble pathetically up the stairs; somehow, the pain seems worse than it was yesterday.  Each step with my left leg sends a stab of pain through my side. 

“That seems to be bothering you a lot,” Bert notes, biting his lip.  “I’ll bring more ointment around next time?”

“That would be heavenly,” I pant, leaning against the doorframe at the top of the staircase.  Gingerly, I peel my shirt up and poke at the edges of the bandages. 

Bert swats my hand away.  “Don’t do that!” he chastises nervously.  “You’re going to hurt yourself!  Listen, let’s just…”  He scratches at the back of his neck, glancing down at his feet with a troubled frown.  “I’ll bring you some of the more powerful painkillers for the lunchtime rounds.  They’ll knock you out, though.”

“Oh!”  I smile at him gratefully.  “Thank you, Bert.  You’re… not bad, for a kidnapper.”

His eyes widen.  “A kidnapper?!”

“Mmhmm.”  Purposefully ignoring him, I shade my eyes with my hand.  “So, those areas over there?  Those things are where Orochi is being held?”

Bert follows my gaze to the rings of spikes protruding from the ice, and the occasional burst of fire exploding from what seems to be pits in the middles of them.  He nods grimly, his lips a flat line, eyes unusually hard. 

“We’ll be flying over on the Boneknapper, if that’s alright,” he says, already unhooking the club from his belt.  “That won’t make you freak out again, will it?” 

My stomach pitches treacherously.  “…No, probably not, I’m a bit curious to the ins and outs of a Boneknapper,” I confess honestly.  “I’ve never seen one before – they look quite fearsome.”

Bert smiles, a smile that truly reaches his eyes.  “Well, that’s certainly something I can scratch off your list, Boneknappers being fearsome.”  He brandishes his club in the air and hollers abruptly, making me jump, but continues, “They’re one of the most delightful breeds of dragons I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.  They’ll do anything to get their armor, but once it’s intact, they’re puppy dogs.  You’ll see.”

“So, it’s sort of like the Terrible Terror, then?”  I glance from Bert to the movement at the edge of the cabin, waiting for the dragon to appear.  “You give it what it wants – a fish, or in this case, a bone – and it’s your best friend forever?”

“Something like that, yes,” Bert says.  The Boneknapper slinks around the corner, its eyes narrowed and hateful, and it captures his attention.  I witness a similar dance between human and dragon as I had yesterday – the Boneknapper bristling and snarling, sending shivers down its back to rattle its armor threateningly, Bert shouting and waving his club.  And, as before, the moment he pulls out the knuckle bone, its eyes widen with yearning and it cowers from him and his club. 

Now, with fresh eyes, I view the scene with greater respect.  It’s barbaric and disgusting and I would never manipulate a dragon like he does, but it’s clever.  Damn, it’s so clever. 

Waiting with bated breath, I watch as Bert draws nearer and nearer to the beast, waving a club every time the beast moves its head suddenly or twitches a long claw.  Fascinated, I lean forward to study it more closely – Bert is leaning down beside its shoulder and slipping the bone into place.  It fits perfectly amongst the other bones. 

But why?  Hasn’t he just lost his only leverage over the beast?  Why does it still cower, why does it seem more fearful now than ever before?

The dragon is shivering now, its eyes rolling back into its skull.  Bert’s hand hovers an inch over its bony head.  His expression is harrowing; a dark scowl the likes of which I never had dreamt him possible of, more demonic than human.  He bares his teeth in a feral snarl of a smile, and the fist holding his club quivers as if he can barely hold back a bludgeoning blow. 

Then, the tension suddenly leaves his body, and the hellishness seeps from his face in mere seconds.  Hesitating a beat, he turns to me and gestures me closer.  Sincere and sweet, his smile holds none of its previous menace. 

Cautiously, I sidestep towards the beast and the man, eyes flickering distrustfully from monster to monster. 

“Don’t be looking so nervous, he’s harmless,” Bert assures with a kindly smile. 

“I – I don’t understand.”  Its great, yellow eyes meet mine as I take a step closer to the terrified beast, and a shiver goes down my spine at how utterly defeated it looks.  “Why… why isn’t it ripping us to pieces?  It has what it wants.”

“I lent it what it wants,” Bert corrects.  “The bone’s still mine.  He knows by now that I can take it back when I choose.  His part of the deal still stands, though – climb up whenever you’re ready.”

The dragon’s gaze grows so much wearier at that... It huffs a sigh and stares listlessly off, like a broken veteran, a soldier that’s had the last straw.  Slowly, his eyes shut, and he is the picture of helpless.  The fine will of a dragon, the will of a predator, has been beaten out of him. 

“Do you mind if I…?”  I jerk my thumb out to the Boneknapper. 

Bert nods pleasantly.  “By all means, go ahead.”

Tenatively, I reach out to touch his shoulder blade, a small part of unarmored pale green flesh.  The muscles tense beneath me.  My heart snaps in two.  It’s expecting pain to be inflicted. 

“Shhhhhh,” I whisper, rubbing my thumb against his scales.  They’re cool to the touch and softer than a newborn dragon’s.  “Easy, easy.  You’re okay.”  Slowly, I lay the rest of my fingers down upon his skin, moving them in rhythmic circles.  Keeping my touch light, gentle.  Cautious of hidden injuries or triggers.  “Easy, buddy, you’re okay.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

Bert is watching me, his eyes alight with fascination, but the Boneknapper is the sole object of my attention – I move my fingers in comforting massages over strange but not unfamiliar muscles, the years of training children to do exactly this to other similar dragons smoothing the flow of pressure in my hands.  After a moment of judging hesitation, he relaxes beneath my ministrations. 

The Boneknapper has opened his eyes.  An excited thrill goes down my back.  He’s staring at me again.  I would not go so far as to call it the curiosity that’s raging so obviously in Bert, but it is a dull recognition that I am different – and I can only pray that will be enough. 

Spreading my fingers over his scales in a farewell, I step backwards, nodding my head respectfully to the Boneknapper.  He rumbles and lays his head back against the deck, but his eyes do not close.  I stare at my feet, unable to hold his powerful gaze any longer. 

“That was amazing,” Bert breathes.  He stands, slack-jawed, just beside me.  “He’s so much calmer now and – wow.  Are you a dragon whisperer?”

I chuckle, bowing my head bashfully.  “Nah, nothing like that.  Back in my tribe, I taught the kids how to bond with dragons – I taught them how to read a dragon’s body language, how to communicate with them.”

Bert’s eyes grow impossibly wider.  “That’s incredible.  You can communicate with this one?”

Sadly, I look down at the Boneknapper.  “I’m not sure.  He’s been through a lot of trauma.”

“Oh.”  He sounds disappointed, and slightly ashamed.  “…Is that how you got the Night Fury to obey you?  Roachy or whoever?”

“Orochi,” I correct automatically, adding in slight annoyance: “And he doesn’t obey me.  We have a friendship, a relationship.  He doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to.  And I don’t make him.”

Bert is silent.  He has no retort, nothing to add.  Or perhaps he’s just stunned by my way of life.  I can’t bring myself to look at him, too filled with disgust to hide it from him just yet.  Instead, I approach the Boneknapper again with intentions of mounting it. 

“How do we get on him, huh?”

Unshackling the Boneknapper, Bert shows me the best places to ride on his backside between the giant spikes along his spine.  There, he says, are the best places for a passenger to sit.  Like Monstrous Nightmare, the rider sits right behind its horns to steer the rest of the body. 

I settle down onto the ridges of bone.  To my surprise, the bones form an ideal seat, cradling me comfortably between the two spines.  I lean back and rest my head for a moment, feeling the Boneknapper breathe and feeling myself rock with every breath. 

Without any warning to me, Bert roars.  I jolt upright in time to see the club swing downwards onto the Boneknapper’s jaw bone and hear its corresponding _smack._   Lurching upwards, the dragon spreads its wings and flies quickly, like a wretched old dog shying from the next crack of the whip. 

From my spot between the spines, I barely feel the liftoff.  Long chains whip past me, metal cages of squealing dragons groaning overhead.  Smells of fish, of dragon piss, and of alcohol poison the air.  Tall masts of creaking ships fly by.  The Boneknapper’s rocking flaps carry us safely past all of these. 

The wind buffets my face, but I register its ferocity less than usual.  Nostalgia pangs painfully in my stomach.  I close my eyes and, for a moment, let my bangs be blown from my face and imagine that I am safe upon the back of Orochi, with nothing but the sky and the ocean and the bone-deep feeling of us. 

A particularly pungent rotten fish smell fills my nose.  I cough so violently as to bring a tear to my eye.  Drawing my lips into a bitter line, I stomach the growing irritation with my helpless imprisonment reluctantly. 

The Boneknapper’s weaving path through the ships even out as we reach the end of their marina.  I lean over to one side, staring down at the pits with awe.  Dragons roar and people bellow, brandishing crude clubs above their heads.  It smells putridly of burnt hair. 

A Changewing hops about in one pit, spitting acid furiously at its captor.  Two Sword Stealers humbly slink around another’s feet.  An absolutely pissed Monstrous Nightmare sends plumes of fire into the air, and a trainer stumbles out of his pit, coughing up ashes while another waddles forward with a bowl of water.  In the next, a Nadder is accepting some fish from someone else. 

In the last pit…

A single bolt of purple fire explodes from the depths of it, its echo thundering through the glacial cavern.  It hits ice, and some breaks off from the walls, tumbling into the dark waters below. 

_Orochi._

His enraged roar echoes around the cavern. 

“Attaboy,” I whisper, my throat closing up, a bittersweet smile pulling at my lips. 

Bert shoves the Boneknapper’s head down roughly, and the rest of the dragon follows, landing heavily beside Orochi’s pit.  It sighs heavily and collapses. 

Hastily, I swing my leg over the side of the dragon, slipping down and hopping over the Boneknapper’s splayed legs. 

My heart sings as Orochi snarls.  From the edges of the pit climbs one of the trainers, and after him swipes an angry black paw.  The man stumbles away, cursing furiously back at the dragon, _my_ dragon.  I puff my chest out with pride, sparing him a cocky smirk. 

Small, battle-hardened eyes flash angrily my way.  “Whatcha lookin’ so smug for, ya one armed bastard?”

“You alright, Reiner?” Bert calls, loping to his side and resting a hand on the man’s charred armor. 

“Yeah, don’ worry about me.”  Clenching his jaw, the man brushes Bert aside, heaving himself to his feet.  He’s a sturdy man, built like a Gronckle and probably not much brighter than one.  My eyes widen with recognition – he’d been there, looming like a malevolent shadow in the doorway, when Annie had first introduced herself to me. 

From the pit, Orochi growls a warning.  A smile spreads over my face.  The ice is slick beneath my boots, but I don’t shorten my strides, only bounding further with each new step. 

I slip on a patch of ice near the pit and the world flies out from under me.  My back hits the ground heavily.  I hiss with pain and the world goes white.  However, the cold is strangely gentle to my itching scratches, and I’m still sliding forward across the ice.  My ribs throb hotly – the ground had been less kind to them. 

Orochi’s squeal of joy sings through the air.  I shout back an incoherent jubilation.  Blinking the whiteness from my eyes, I brace my hand upon the cold, smooth ice and crawl forward. 

A croon emanates from right in front of me.  Finally, most of the fuzziness fades from my vision, and I see him.  I see Orochi. 

He shoves his nose through the iron spiderweb of chains guarding the pit’s roof.  The chains jangle and snap taut, creaking with the effort of holding him back.  Love-croons pour from his mouth, garbled and unrestrained. 

“Hey bud,” I whisper, stretching out to him.  My center of balance quivers beneath me, and I pause in fear plummeting into the pit beside him. 

Orochi closes the distance, butting his muzzle against my palm. 

Breathing raggedly, I cup his face and hold him as close as I can.  He croons and purrs, rubbing his forehead ridges against me, staring up with eyes filled with love.  His tongue flickers out once, but it can’t reach me.  My heart sinks and I lean forward a little further. 

“How’re they treating you, huh?” I whisper, fondling his ear flaps.  He grumbles noncommittedly, striking a laugh from me.  “Yeah, same.  I think you’ve got it a bit worse, though.  I hear that you’re refusing to eat?”

Orochi croons innocently, staring up at me with big, adoring eyes. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I laugh.  Over my shoulder, I call, “Hey, Bert!”

His head appears over the ring of spikes, and Orochi snarls violently at him.  Flinching, Bert cries, “Marco, be careful!”

“Get me some fish, will you?”  I stroke my hand reassuringly beneath Orochi’s jaw, silencing him.  “Maybe more than usual!  No eels, he loves cod.”

“We ain’t got eels to give him,” the other one, Reiner, grunts.  Orochi tenses at the sound of his voice, growling more quietly this time. 

Bert appears again, sticking his head through the hole in the spikes I’d slipped through.  He peeks around for a moment, then smiles, and shoves a basket out towards me.  It skids over the ice and bumps against my leg. 

Orochi purrs appreciatively at the stench of fish, rubbing more vigorously against my hand.  Laughing, I swat him away and reach into the basket.  The fish are cold and disgusting to the touch, their soft bodies difficult to grasp.  At last, grimacing, I pull a slime-dripping haddock from the basket.  Orochi squeals. 

“Yeah, you’d be the type to like it.”  I hand it out to him, and he gulps it down eagerly.  “There you go, bud.  Happy?”

He grumbles and nudges against my hand. 

“Thought not.”  Smiling, I hand him another fish.  “There you are.  Hungry lil bastard, aren’t you?”  Another fish goes down his gullet.  “I’d give these all to you, pour them down into your pit, but then I think you’d choke.”  He shoots me an indignant glare as I hand him another.  “Don’t look at me like that.  You know it’s true.”

“He’s so calm,” Bert says.  I swivel around to eye him – he stands just beyond the ring of spikes, jaw practically hitting the floor. 

“Yeah, well, you know the deal.”  I smile and stroke Orochi’s face with my slimy fingers, but I doubt he cares.  “Give a dragon what he wants and you’ve got a friend for life.”

“But – what did he want?”  I hear the sound of scraping ice, and when I look behind me, he’s slid between the ice spikes and it inching close, staying just out of Orochi’s field of vision.  He fiddles with his fingers, craning his neck to watch my dragon. 

“I mean,” he adds, “we tried fish.  We’ve been trying to get him to eat all sorts of stuff.  So what does he want?”

“Ah, Night Furies are a bit more finicky than most other dragons,” I chuckle, sliding a haddock down Orochi’s throat.  He flings his head up and gulps it down greedily, licking at his lips. 

“How do you mean?”

Handing him another fish, I say, “Well, they don’t want a particular thing in general.  I’d say they want friendship, but they don’t.  They’re one of the most unique dragons I’ve ever come across in that they’re like people.”

“Like people?” he repeats. 

“Yeah, like people.”  I smile kindly at him.  “For instance, I wasn’t the one that instigated what we have going here.  He was the one that decided he would nurse me back to health, and so began our friendship.  That’s what I give him.  My companionship.  He gives it right back, so it works pleasantly.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Bert whispers, creeping forward.  He freezes in place as Orochi bucks back his head, snarling viciously, but I silence him with a light rap of my knuckles against his muzzle. 

“Cut that out,” I murmur.  He grumbles a protest, nose wrinkling at Bert. 

Flashing an inviting smile at Bert, I nod him over.  Carefully, he lowers himself beside me.  Lips peeling back over his teeth, Orochi growls deep in his throat, eyeing Bert with hostility.  He winces but has the sense not to flinch away, meeting Orochi’s gaze. 

“He’s a kitten if you’re kind to him.”  I glance at him hesitantly.  “You specifically haven’t been in there with him, have you…?”

Bert shakes his head.  “No, never.”  At the sound of his voice Orochi opens his maw aggressively, hissing ferociously.  Down his gullet appears a soft, blue light. 

_He’s going to fire another bolt._

Grabbing the tail of a fish, I slap him across the nose with it.  It bounces off his skin with a fleshy smack.  Befuddled, he grunts and blinks, turning to me with wide, hurt eyes. 

“No,” I scold, pointing the fish at him sternly.  “Bad dragon.”

Huffing, Orochi bows his head in reluctant acceptance of Bert’s presence. 

“This is amazing,” he whispers, his voice quivering slightly.  “No one’s – no one’s ever gotten so close to a Night Fury.”

“No one, huh?” I muse, smiling and dipping my fingers down to stroke beneath his jaw. 

Bert blushes.  “Well, maybe you.  But – this is as close as we’ve ever gotten to him while he’s conscious.  Can I…?”

Hesitantly, he reaches a hand out after mine, fingers quivering.  Huffing disdainfully, Orochi snarls and turns his face away from Bert’s sweaty palm.  His tail swishes to and fro irritably inside the rocky pit. 

Naively, Bert reaches eagerly down further.  Orochi’s head whips around serpentinely.  Bellowing, he slams his head against the chains, snapping angrily for Bert’s offending hand. 

Bert squeaks and recoils, scampering back on the ice.  Orochi beats his wings in wide, agitated sweeps.  He snarls and rattles the chains, maw glowing with the threat of a blue light again.   

“Don’t you hurt Bertl, you overgrown skink!” the Reiner man roars in response, shaking a furious fist.  It’s hard not to strangle him. 

“Okay, okay, calm down.”  I rub Orochi’s forehead, hushing him.  He growls, pushing into my touch but keeping his eyes locked on Bert. 

The man looks at me in dismay.  “What happened?”

“Ah, Bert, you came on too strong,” I sigh apologetically, shaking my head.  “He ducked away from you.  That means no.”

Crestfallen, he nods obediently.  “I – I don’t have to touch him, I was just curious…”

“No, it’s okay, it’ll be fine.”  I lean forward slightly more to press my fingers against his tense neck muscles.  “Orochi’s just a little more on edge than usual.  What with being trapped and tortured and all.”

He grimaces, and a small pang of satisfaction brightens me. 

“Here, just give him some haddock.”  I hand him the slimy fish with a kind smile.  “He’ll be friendlier towards you, I swear it.”

Bert ducks his head, blushing, and takes the fish sheepishly.  In the same mixture of hesitance and curiosity I see on the faces off all my students, he extends his hand.  His muscles are tense and still shaking, ready to snap back in a second. 

“Relax,” I murmur, resting my hand on arm.  “If you’re nervous, you’re going to make him nervous.  Be confident.  Be respectful.”

Taking a slow, deep breath, Bert leans forward, offering the fish to Orochi.  He sniffs at it distrustfully, but, with a lengthy glance towards me, gulps it down. 

Bert whoops quietly, a soft laugh bubbling from him.  His eyes shine with childish glee.  “That was – that was amazing.  Night Furies are such amazing predators and – and he just _ate_ from the palm of _my_ hand.  Oh, wow.  Wow.”

I stifle a laugh.  “Well, yeah, you’re one step closer to earning his trust.”  My stomach plummets at the thought of that, and, mouth twisting into a frown, I cup Orochi’s chin.  He croons, nuzzling against my knuckles. 

“That was the last of the fish,” Bert reports, tucking the basket beneath his arm.  “I, uh.  I’d love to stay, I really would, but… we’d better get going, Marco.”

“Okay.  Gimme a moment.” 

He bows his head respectfully.  “Of course.”

Leaning over the edge precariously, I stroke behind Orochi’s ears.  Crooning, he sticks his muzzle between the chains and butts it against my forehead.  His purr rumbles against me, and his pink tongue flicks out to leave a wet stripe down my cheek. 

“Ew, bud,” I mutter, shoving him halfheartedly away.  “Your breath smells like fish.  Ugh.”

He moans a mournful plea as I stand, pawing frantically at the chains.  As I turn my back, he squeals desperately.  I watch him over my shoulder for a few seconds – he stares at me imploringly, nostrils flaring with panic. 

“Sorry, buddy,” I whisper half-heartedly.  “I’ll be back.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and clamber slip through the ice spikes.  Behind me Orochi roars in fear, his cries laced with a cacophony of rattling chains.  I duck my chin against my chest and squeeze my eyes shut, breathing out slowly. 

A heavy hand lands on my shoulder.  Startled, I look up into the gaze of massive Reiner.  But what is that, in his eyes?  A twinkle?  There is something softer in his expression now. 

“There, there, lil one-arm,” he grates, cracking a thin smile.  “He’s in safe hands.  Boss won’t let us hurt him, anyway.”

“Reiner will take care of Orochi, Marco,” Bert says kindly, brushing his heavy hand from my shoulder.  “Don’t worry about him.  I’ll bring you back tomorrow again, alright?”

I glance behind me with a pang of regret.  Orochi keens dolefully, the chains jangling furiously.  I clench my fists and lock my jaw, a cold helplessness seizing my heart. 

“Let’s go,” I murmur defeatedly, turning my face away.  “I can’t stand much more of this place.”

* * *

 

The steam from the forge belches into the air as Ymir dumps a bucket of cool water into the fire, the angry hiss of coals splitting through the conversation Eren and Mikasa had been sharing a moment before.  Engulfed in the smoke, she turns back towards them.  A sneer sits on twisted lips. 

Throwing down her heavy leather gloves on a cluttered desk of broken axes, she prowls over, carrying with her the suffocating scent of soot.  One of the many stray hairs sticking up from her messy ponytail had caught fire; without bothering to give it more than a glance, she snuffs it between her fingers.  It dies with a soft sizzle. 

“You done?” Eren asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Ah, Princess, that’s no way to be.”  Smirking, Ymir drops down beside him heavily enough to make the bench shudder.  He wrinkles her nose from her smoky musk.  “Mikasa, darlin’, pass my wash bowl?”

Mikasa hands Ymir a small basin filled with clean water.  Water spills over its tinny edges and onto Eren’s lap as she plunges both hands into it.  She swipes her wet hands over her eyes only, leaving droplets to streak through the ash on her cheeks.  Harrumphing, she hurls the last of the bowl’s contents across the forge and onto the fire with startling aim. 

“That’s the last of that,” Ymir sighs over the hissing of the flames.  “So, how’re you two daisy-pickers doin’, huh?  What ya doing at my forge so early?”

“I…”  Eren shakes his head.  “I can’t take you serious when you look like that.”

Ymir mocks offense, arching a single brow and resting her chin on a fist.  “Look like what? 

Mikasa says flatly, “You look like you’re wearing a mask.”

“Or that you’ve just sobbed off the color in your face,” Eren says, nodding sagely. 

“Ah, you mean this?”  She points towards her botched wash job, grinning wolfishly.  “It’s like reverse war paint.  I don’t blame ya for shivering in ya boots.  I look fuckin’ fierce.”

“Sure, Ymir.”  Eren rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, but her grin doesn’t falter.  “Listen, we heard that you were invited onto the war party to get Marco back – you were, right?”

“Mmhmm.”  She cracks her knuckles, the pop of her bones making Eren cringe.  “Erwin needs good old Fucknut on the job.  Needs her beautiful, beautiful nose.”

“Fucknut is your Rumblehorn, right?” Mikasa asks. 

“Yep!”  Ymir throws her hands up in the air and stretches, this time cracking her back with a catlike yawn.  “Ya see, she ‘nd Marco always got along swimmingly.  Loves her some freckles, I suppose.  Can’t say I blame her.  She’ll track him down in a second, old girl will.”

Hesitantly, Eren meets Mikasa’s gaze.  Rumors had spread around the village in the days since they’d been back, but he’s not sure just how much Ymir knows. 

“You know what we’re up against, don’t you?” he says slowly. 

“Mmm, Erwin debriefed me,” she hums, putting her hands behind her head and stretching outwards. 

“Then you know it’s not exactly a time to be all chummy,” Eren says, frowning. 

Ymir peeks one eye open, smirking at him crookedly.  “Whether I go into a fight spitting curses or trudging my feet ain’t gonna change Marco’s fate.  He’s either dead already or he ain’t.  Nothing I do is gonna change that.  Y’all’d make an excellent pair of mourners at his funeral, for Thor’s sake.”

Flabbergasted, Eren blinks slowly, his mouth hanging open.  “I – I – how are you so calm about this?  He’s your cousin!”

“And I know him much better than you,” Ymir chuckles.  “Boy ain’t dead.  He’s too cute for anyone tah kill ‘em, and he’s not an idiot.  Other than that?  We’re just facing a whole flock of motherfuckers.  Not that different than other war parties, tah be completely honest.”

“You’re strong,” says Mikasa respectfully, dipping her head.  “I think we’re both just nervous for Marco.”

“Both of ya?”  Ymir cracks a smile at Mikasa.  “Well, darling, you could’ve had me fooled.  But I’m telling you now, toots and tootsier – Marco will be fine.  Wouldn’t surprise me if, when we arrived, the boy’s already broken outta his cell.”

“You think?” Eren muses, staring up at the ceiling. 

“I know.”  Ymir punches him square on the shoulder.  “Quit your worrying.”

Eren opens his mouth for an indignant retort, but the blare of the village’s horn pierces the early morning quiet.  The three of them rise together, turning their faces up the hill to the building of the Great Hall.  Upon the crown of the building roosts Erwin’s great beast, its long claws like sickles over the gables. 

“That’s our call, boys and girls,” Ymir chuckles, grabbing a fearsome horned helmet off the table and tucking it beneath her arm.  “I’d offer to race ya to the top, but dear Fucknut is slow as shit.  I’ll meet you there instead.”

* * *

 

“Reiner and I were talking today again,” Bert chatters as he cleans up the medical supplies.  “About your Night Fury.  Since he’s the one in charge of it, he knows all about it.”

Feigning nonchalance, I stretch experimentally, testing the bandages he’d just wrapped around my wounds.  “Really?” 

“Mmhmm.”  Bert buckles the bag up, throwing it over a shoulder.  “He said that in all the times that thing’s attacked him, it’s never broken the flesh.  We got to talking, and he only ever bites him with gums.  He’s got viselike jaw strength, though.

The bandages hold up well no matter which way I flex, keeping a firm pressure on the slashes.  “Gave him some bruises, then?” I grunt, stretching my left arm up and over my head. 

“Oh, yes, definitely,” he says, nodding.  “But we were talking, and Reiner thinks he’s not out to hurt him.  Just scared.  I feel kind of bad about it, to be honest.”

“Hmmm.”  _Change the subject before he grows on you any more._ “These bandages are really well done – do you have any medical training?”

“Not officially,” he hums, blushing slightly.  “I mean, I’m more of a warrior, but I’ve patched myself up so many times I know the gist by now.”

“If you’re a warrior…”  I furrow my brow at him.  “Why the hell are you looking after me?”

He chuckles merrily, his great bulkiness shuffling across the small room towards the table.  “Well, apparently, I’m charismatic or something.  I think Annie just wanted to make sure you didn’t get away.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me nonetheless, I’m content napping from meal to meal,” I laugh, subtly slipping a hand beneath the furry blankets, feeling my fingers over the mattress until they hit cold wood.  An icy stone settles in the pit of my stomach.  Resolve wavering, I half-heartedly curl my hand around the club hidden beneath the sheets. 

“Ha!  Somehow, I don’t think Annie would believe you.”  Bert smiles over his shoulder, his eyes warm.  “For the record, I do, though.  And, speaking of meals, looks like today you’ve got bread and butter!”

“Really?”  I arch my eyebrows – the moment he nods and turns away again, my hand slithers back to my side, club still clutched uncertainly, barely hidden by a thin blanket. 

“Surprise, I know,” he says apologetically, turning his back.  “But I did manage to get your dragon some cod.  Reiner said he definitely liked it best.” 

Conflicted and confused, I sit there in silence.  Bert picks up my plate for me, still smiling that friendly smile, and I weakly return it.  He steps forward eagerly, however, the butter knife skitters off the edge of the plate.  I flinch at the muffled thump it makes hitting the floor. 

Laughing it off, Bert leans down to pick it up, and I feel frozen, frozen in time. 

Should I club this man now, with a rash plan beneath my belt and so many variables that could go so very wrong?   Should I attack this kind person, this man that cares for my wounds and believes that I wouldn’t do exactly this?  Is this plan one I should go through with?  But doesn’t he deserve it, in a way, for treating the Boneknapper the way he does?  What if I can change him?  What if what I’ve taught him is enough to help him see that dragons are more than animals?

Bert scoops up the knife, humming cheerfully. 

I shouldn’t.  I shouldn’t harm this man.  It crushes me, but I shouldn’t.  I need more time to formulate a plan, I need time to find more materials than a moldy floor, a sloppily-sharpened butter knife shiv, and a club made from the leg of a chair.  My shoulders slump with defeat – of course I shouldn’t.  I was foolish, this plan is stupid –

Frowning, he stoops to look at the legs of my only stool.  “Hey, what happened to this chair?”

_THWACK._

He falls to the floor in a crumpled heap. 

“Oh, Bert, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, shaking my head.  “I wish you hadn’t had noticed that.”

This plan is stupid, and I know that, but it’s already begun.  It’d be more stupid to stand around.  Crouching beside him, I move to remove his armor.  He hadn’t needed anything more than light leather, casual wear, really, but I’ll take whatever I can get. 

The cold buckles are worn with use and easy to undo with one hand.  I bend the leather over my knee curiously – any stiffness it might’ve had once is long gone.  Images of swords cleaving clean through this incompetent of armor flashes in my mind’s eye – I shake my head to clear them.  It’s the best I have. 

The breastplate is musky with Bert’s scent, and, try though I may to block it out, it’s difficult to ignore.  It hangs awkwardly off of me, and I don’t have the time to do anything but fiddle pathetically with the straps, so I leave it be and pray for the best. 

A forearm brace, a pauldron, a leather glove, and his helmet – all of this I pillage from him, each slightly too big, each sloppily fastened.  The worn leather is at least comfortable. 

I grab the butter knife from beneath the mattress, its serrated edge gleaming, sharpened to a jagged point after I’d flint-knapped it roughly against the steel bedframe.  It’s not perfect, but it does serve a purpose

Around Bert’s waist is a frayed cord.  The makeshift blade cuts easily through the old rope, and it snaps apart in my hands.  I mutter a thanks the Gods and pull his purse from the cord. 

It’s a small, velvety thing that fits easily into the palm of my hand.  I pinch the bottom and pour the contents into my palm – a few metal coins and plink together in my palm, a small, carved token, and lastly, the Boneknapper’s knuckle. 

“You’re smaller than I remembered you,” I murmur, rubbing a thumb against its smooth surface.  The grooves of the bone seem familiar – I smile wryly.  A sheep’s knuckle, then. 

I tuck both it and the knife into my pocket. 

The door is shut.  In the past, when I subtly tried to turn the knob to see if I could, it wouldn’t turn without being unlocked by Bert first.  One of the keys in a ring still strung on his cord could unlock it.  Time, however, is not an ally, and as easy as it’d be simply walk out the door, it’s not going to happen.

At least they’ll need to unlock it before they can really realize I’m gone. 

As an afterthought, I unhook his club from the cord.  It’s a proper weapon, blunt and heavy in my hand – the one he uses to frighten the Boneknapper into submission.  My heart turns colds at the memory. 

Dwelling on that now won’t help me. 

I turn to the steel bedframe that’s become my friend these past few days.  Worrying my lip between my teeth, I slowly kneel down beside the bed.  This is where things become risky. 

I carefully take the far end of the bedframe into my palm and push upwards.  It shakes and shivers in my hand.  The sharp edges of the bedframe dig through my glove.  With a labored grunt, I heave it upwards enough to wedge my body weight beneath it. 

It’s heavy, damn is it heavy.  The muscles in my arm tremble with the strain of holding it up.  I grit my teeth and growl out a groan, twisting my head to rub my sweaty forehead on my sleeve. 

Then, taking a deep breath, I shove upwards with all my strength. 

It’s a quick, difficult ascension.  My calves burn and my arm spasms.  It comes minimally better when the pillows and mattress spill off, but not enough.  A choked breath escapes my lungs.  I close my eyes and bite my tongue, heaving upwards.  Shaky triumph fills my heart as I lift it up past my shoulders and try to lift it higher. 

The tremor in my arm becomes too quivery.  My grip on the bedframe is slipping.  Any second, it’ll come falling down.  Which is, of course, exactly what I want. 

Using the last of the strength in my arm, I hurl the bed down and spring backwards in the same violent motion.

_CRUNCH._

The steel bedframe smashed the wooden boards beneath its two legs, half hanging down into the lower room.  Falling splinters clatter against the floor below mine.  Through the hole I punctured through the floor

Running a hand through my hair, I lean against the wall and swallow down the dryness of my throat.  I squeeze my eyes shut, listening to the huffing of my heavy breath.  Thankfully, I hear nothing but myself and the plinking of wood. 

I sweep aside the splinters littering the floor and peek down into the hole I’d created – like Bert had said, it’s a wine cellar.  It’s conveniently over one of the aisles – I shove myself over the edge and land lightly on the floor. 

A searing pain blossoms at my side.  I freeze, holding in a gasp of pain and listening, praying that there isn’t anything to hear. 

The air reeks of alcohol and mold.  The echoes of my footsteps bounce between the towering walls of ale.  Uneasily, I shift my weight, and the floorboard groans noisily.  My muscles lock, but then I relax. 

_Anyone that could be listening would have already heard you.  There’s nothing to fear._

I navigate the dark maze of barrels without incident.  I’m not sure whether I should thank the gods or curse them – a miracle doesn’t happen twice, and this would’ve been the easiest leg of the journey. 

The exit door swing open easily, hinges squealing.  The absence of any response is thrilling – there’s no one else on this boat, no one but poor Bert.  For a crazy moment, I consider staying here and reveling in that small freedom, but I shake my head to be rid of the thought. 

_That little cell must’ve driven me crazy._ The thought doesn’t come as a surprise. 

My ribs have begun to throb hotly.  I clutch at them with my hand as I stagger up the stairs, cradling them in an attempt to lessen the flash of pain every step.  It doesn’t help much.  To be honest, it’s a wonder I’ve gotten this far without them acting up – I can only bless Bert’s magnificent work binding up my ribs.

At the top of the staircase, I collapse against the doorframe, panting heavily.  A heavy sweat cakes my forehead, but to wipe it away would require my hand to stop nursing my wounded ribs.  It happens upon me how horrifically unfit I am after the week or so of inexercise – a new flicker of doubt burns in the pit of my stomach. 

_Don’t think like that.  Keep going._

I untuck Bert’s helmet from beneath my arm, stroking a thumb over its leather cheekbone – it’s not a Viking helmet, and it’s not something I’m even vaguely familiar with.  It seems sturdy enough, even if it is a leather mask.  Bert never parted with it.  Hopefully, it’ll disguise me for long enough from the prying eyes of other soldiers – if the arm isn’t a dead giveaway, that is.  

Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip the foreign helmet over my head.

It smells leathery, but with that same Bert-musk on the inside.  Noises of the ocean inside here are muffled and strange, the eyeholes barely more than slits.  When I try to breath, the leather sucks up into my nostrils.  Feeling like I fish, I drop my mouth open.

“Damn mouth-breathing bandits,” I grumble, still slightly breathless from the climb. 

I touch my knuckles against the door to the deck hesitantly.  Slowly, I push it open, quivers rattling down my spine. 

Dragon screeches fill the air.  A few ships over in their harbor, men are bellowing orders and dropping crates of small, black dragons I’ve never seen before onto its deck.  An odd Gronckle flies clumsily.  The drunken sea-shanties of inebriated men echo hauntingly through the cavern.

Through the tiny slits of the helmet, I peer around at the world, whipping my head to and fro. 

Dragons scream and cry and claw at their enclosures, scrambling over one another in the vague hope of escape.  Others lie motionlessly, vacantly watching the eager few with half-lidded eyes.  Rotting flesh defiles the air with its acrid reek.  It is difficult to tell which dragons at the bottoms of the cages are broken-spirited and which have met their death all too soon. 

Light streams in through the crack in the ceiling, a sweet, golden pillar down into the pits of this watery hell. 

“Oh,” I whisper softly, smiling at the one beautiful thing in the mayhem.  The sun is welcoming me back. 

At the sound of my voice, the Boneknapper slinks around the corner of the cabin.  I whip my head around, spooked by its near silence.  Our eyes meet, and the low growl rumbling in its chest rattles its armor as it draws nearer, opening its mouth wider in a threatening snarl. 

It never appeared before Bert without being called – it knows I’m different.  It knows I’m not its master.  I can see it in its hunger in its narrowed eyes, see a maddened sliver of the predator it used to be. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” I hush, stepping out from the doorway and crouching before it.  “That’s no way to be.”

The Boneknapper growls louder in response, its wings arching up over its head like sickly white scythes. 

I whip the club out, holding it in a quiet threat over my head.  The effect it has on the Boneknapper causes my heart to boil with hatred – the beast hesitates, the slits of its eyes widening with fear and uncertainty.  I want nothing more than to hurl it out into the ocean. 

I grit my teeth and tighten my grip around the weapon. 

“You respect me because of this, don’t you?” I whisper, then correct myself, “No, you don’t respect me, you fear me.  I don’t want that.  Alright?  I don’t want that.”

It takes a step back. 

Fear causes unpredictability in dragons.  It always has, ever since dragons were still our mortal enemies.  It fears this club, yes, but it doesn’t fear me.  Whatever hold Bert had on it, I don’t inspire the same groveling terror. 

Shaking my head in frustration, I fling the club away from me.  My only real weapon clatters loudly against the deck, rolling off the sides.  I helplessly watch it roll into the black ocean, frowning after it in frustration. 

Reproachfully, I eye the Boneknapper, shaking my head.  “You better fucking like me now, I probably needed that.”

For its part, the Boneknapper seems less afraid, less aggressive – more curious, definitely suspicious.  There is a small flicker of life in those eyes – it’s stunted and sad, but life all the same. 

“Hey, hey,” I coo, dropping to a harmless crouch.  My fingers grope around in my pocket for the bone.  I feel its smooth surface against my thumb and pull it from my pocked. 

“This, it’s what you want, isn’t it?” 

I hold it out in front of my face for it to get a clear view. 

Its mouth drops open slightly, a heavy huff of breath escaping its lungs.  Mewling, it drops its stomach to the deck and watches it enviously. 

“I thought so.  Are you going to let me…?”  I inch a few steps closer, and it doesn’t move back.  To my delight, it doesn’t flinch, either – just bristles slightly in a silent warning.  Its eyes are more curious now than ever.

“Here.”  Holding the bone in the palm of my hand, I stretch my arm out.  “This is yours, isn’t it?”

A snarl rips through its body, bones clattering malevolently against one another.  Ambivalently, it glares at the bone, and it furiously growls its indecisiveness.  It lifts one foot and then lifts another, switching anxiously back and forth. 

At last, some sort of decision is made.  Gnashing terrible teeth, the dragon swings its head towards me. 

My hand is trembling violently.  Those fangs would be so quick to remove my second arm.  It’d be so easy for this deranged creature to kill me and take the bone. 

It takes a single, slow step forward.  The boat rocks subtly from its weight.  A pause follows the single step, a pause for those yellow eyes to evaluate my response.  I am careful to keep my expression a perfect neutral mask, staring calming into the gaze of the deranged dragon.   

It steps forward again, painfully slowly.  I am so very aware of how exposed I am, how easy it would for someone to notice me.  Swallowing nervously, I flash a quick smile to the creature. 

On the third step, its muzzle is hovering above me.  It opens its mouth and blows its foul breath into my face.  I nearly choke at the rotten scent of it.  The long fangs are so close to me now I can see the individual cracks in the bones, the yellow ringing the tips of every tooth and the slimy pink tongue. 

_Don’t falter.  Don’t show weakness.  It won’t respect you if you do._

There’s no telling it’ll respect me now.  It’s been driven crazy. 

_Don’t think like that._

Without breaking eye contact, the dragon slowly bows its long neck downwards.  Its muzzle arches towards my hand, neck bones clacking softly against one another. 

A gentle breath pools against the skin exposed at my wrist.  The beast’s terrible gaze softens.  Keening, it gingerly takes the bone from my sweaty palm. 

My breath catches in my throat. 

Growling lowly, the Boneknapper slots the knuckle between others on his shoulders.  It rolls its wings experimentally, testing the new bone, and rumbles beneath its breath.  An intimidating shiver goes down its back, the sound of those clattering bones seemingly more sinister than before.  Narrowed, yellow eyes stare daggers down at me, neck arching like a snake preparing to strike. 

To my surprise, the Boneknapper gurgles merrily.  It butts its muzzle against my chest, knocking its bony forehead against mine. 

The boat bobs threateningly beneath the Boneknapper’s weight as it crashes to the deck, nosing against my legs.  It crows softly.  Like a happy dog, its tail scrapes back and forth over the deck. 

“Hey, buddy,” I whisper, voice quivering.  I drop to a crouch in front of him, hooking my hand beneath his jawbone to tickle the skin there.  “Hey.  Hey.  I’m not out to hurt you.  I’m on your side, okay?”

Its soft, silky skin reverberates with a gentle purr beneath my fingertips.  The Boneknapper stares at me with big, wide eyes, its breathing slow and steady. 

“You’re calm,” I murmur in disbelief.  “You’re completely calm.”

His nose hits the center of my chest, and he growls softly.  His tail wags quicker than ever. 

“Hanji would love you.”  I tap him beneath the jaw again, standing up straight.  Carefully, I inch around to his side, keeping my gaze on his and my posture relaxed and submissive – it’s unnecessary, though.  He obliges me immediately once he realizes what I’m up to.  Wings tucking by his side, he presses his chest to the floor and bares his back to me. 

“Okay, then.”  I grab his long, bony spines and hoist myself up, settling in the nook between the vertebrae behind his head.  The huge proportions of his body are alien, unlike nothing I’m comfortable with – the only dragon I’ve ever ridden that’s large enough to carry me on its neck was Titan, and even he does not compare to this creature. 

The Boneknapper lifts its head.  I squeak and dive forward, clutching at a crack between the bones as I rise higher into the air.  It shudders again, sending its bones rattling along its spine, and, consequently, throwing me back and forth sickeningly. 

“Okay.”  I pat my hand hesitantly between his horns, and he purrs.  “Okay.  Let’s do this.”

Nervously, I tap my heels to his neck. 

Flexing his wings out on either side of him, he opens his maw and releases an earsplitting roar.  I throw myself back, yelping, hitting my back against his bones.  People on other boats still and stare, dumbfounded, and the shrieking dragons quiet. 

Cutting off with a fearsome growl, the Boneknapper arches its wings for flight and bursts upwards.  I squeak and wrap my arms around the bone in front of me.  The first few cries of alarm echo through the cavern.  Heart hammering in my chest, I peer over the side of the Boneknapper.  People scurry about like ants beneath us and scramble on top of dragons, taking flight on unsteady wings. 

Shit.  Shit, shit, shit. 

“Move, move, move!” I shout, slamming my heels down against his neck. 

The Boneknapper bellows again.  He explodes forward, weaving erratically between the masts of ships and pitching up and down in the air with every stroke of his wings.  Groaning, I press my forehead against his neck, swallowing down a sudden burst of nausea. 

I hear people shouting, people screaming.  In the corner of my eye, I see dragons flying up and towards the sky in a colorful spire from an open crate.  _Is that cage open?  How?_ Another one of the cage’s doors spring open without warning, releasing the furious beasts from within.  They screech and throw themselves with blind ferocity out into the air.

War cries become shrill shrieks of fear as the deranged dragons slice at anything within reach – riders, mounted dragons, each other, themselves, even, in the case of a shrieking Speed Stinger that soars close enough for me to see the whites of its eyes, struck down by the silvery blur of a much larger dragon.  It lands in the water with a sickening slap; I don’t have time to see if it resurfaces. 

My stomach knots in terror.  It’s a bloodbath.  Dragons are locked in fierce battle everywhere I turn.  Fire is catching on the sails and on the decks.  Desperately, I clutch tighter against the Boneknapper’s neck, shrinking in on myself. 

_How had they gotten out?  How had they all gotten out?_

I duck against the Boneknapper’s neck to avoid the slicing claws of a pissed off Moldruffle.  Seconds later, the offending dragon whips around midair to avoid a bloom of fire from a battling sprawl. 

From below, a mounted Raincutter shrieks a challenge and swings its claws towards the Boneknapper’s soft underbelly, but its rider is speared moments later by a green blur of a dragon.  The Raincutter is thrown through the air by the force of the other’s blow. 

The air is thick with ash and the sounds of death. 

My hand quivers so violently I worry feverishly that it’ll slip and I’ll fall into the sea like another damned corpse. 

I’ve long since lost any sense of direction in the chaos, but the Boneknapper seems steady.  When removed with any choice but to place your life in another’s hands, it’s remarkable how easy it is to trust in them.  I bow my head against his neck and let him guide us. 

We duck through a narrow ring of fire between a pair of ships.  I inhale a mouthful of smoke, and choke, doubling over in my seat.  Clutching almost religiously to the skin of the Boneknapper, I hack violently, my forehead flying forward and smacking against his bones with every convulsion. 

Vision fuzzy with tears, I clutch him tighter. 

_CRASH_

The shock of impact throws me backwards in my seat.  A sick gasp tears from my sore lungs.  The Boneknapper roars, and a toothy dragon fastened to our side shrieks.  It sinks its long claws between my dragon’s armor and into its soft skin, snarling gleefully. 

As soon as my hand fumbles for a club to beat it off, the dragon is torn off by a silver blur I can only assume is another dragon. 

The Boneknapper hovers midair for only a moment, keening in agony, before propelling himself forward again. 

Gagging on ash, tears streaming down my face, I force myself to peek my eyes open bravely.  Black silhouettes do vicious battle inside dark clouds of smoke.  The Boneknapper abruptly yanks me downwards, slamming my forehead against his bones, then rolls to avoid the claws of a shrieking Nightmare. 

“Fuck, fuck,” I bark, flinging my hand forward to clasp firmly around the Boneknapper’s horn.  I shove him forward blindly, and, with a guttural, disgruntled roar, he obeys. 

Another impact slams into us from below.  I fling my weight sideways to catch a glimpse of the creature beneath us.  It snarls and slashes viciously, a blur of motion.  Through tears, I make out a war axe clutched by a human hand. 

“Attack!” I bellow, and shrieking his glee, the Boneknapper skewers the man on one of his long talons and flicks him down into the ocean.  The attacking dragon disentangles from us and flaps off, confused, looking dumbly down at the ocean until a swarm of Terrible Terrors surround it and tear the flesh from its bones. 

“Forward!” I shout so loudly my voice hurts.  “Forward, forward!” 

Snarling, the Boneknapper fights to fly forward through the cloud of smoke – I blink around at the ember-filled sky, trying to orient myself, trying to distinguish the black shadows of fighting dragons from burning ships. 

“Where are we?” I whisper, flinching away from a jet of fire that passes a few feet to our left.  The fire hits a mounted pirate smack in the chest and sets his furs ablaze.  His anguished screams echo through the cavern. 

_Wherever we are, we can’t stay here long._   The Terrible Terror cloud is already massing its numbers, and several more resilient trappers are recovering from vicious battles.  _We’ll be dragged to the center of the bloodbath._

Desperately, I scan the cavern for any source of orientation.  In the corner of my eye, I see a familiar flash of purple fire exploding upwards and crashing against a wall.  My heart fills so rapidly with hope it hurts.  I open my mouth, unable to do anything but squeak with glee. 

Something slams into me from the side.   It is so sudden I don’t know to hold tighter to the Boneknapper – his armor is wrenched from my grip.  There is a brief sensation of weightlessness, then of a frightening fall. 

I claw upwards.  Or maybe it’s downwards.  The world is spinning and the air whistles in my ears, I am falling, and I grope at the empty air for something, anything, to keep me from hitting the cold ground. 

The impact hits me like a Rumblehorn to the back.  Pain blacks out my vision, and a sickly gasp tears from my sooty lungs.  I gasp, open-mouthed and pathetic for a few seconds before I roll over onto my stomach. 

My cheek touches cool, cold ice.  I suck gasps in greedily – the air here against the cold is clean.  It provides sweet, sweet relief to my poor lungs.  Heat still pools against my back, against my leg, and as my ears recover, the dying shrieks of man and monster fill every empty space again.  Cooling my sweat against the ice, I issue a silent prayer to any god that might be listening. 

Hooking two fingers beneath my mask, I flick it away from me.  I hear it skittering across the ice, but don’t give a damn as to where it goes.  Laboriously, I shove myself onto my side. 

“Oh, gods,” I gurgle weakly.  I watch the scene unfolding with numb detachment.   

Fiery explosions knock slices of glacier from the walls of the cavern.  Near the middle of where it all began, over an armada of ships with burning sails and empty cargos, dragons churn together in a vicious feeding frenzy.  Any man or beast brave enough to approach it is ripped apart in a matter of seconds.  On one side of the glacier wall, a group of dragon trappers have amassed – some hover on still-calm dragons, others man harpoons along a ledge.  They shoot bolts into the knot of turmoil at risk of hitting their fellows. 

However, perhaps strangest of all, not all the dragons have sacrificed themselves to the maddened roil or taken advantage of their freedom to fly away.  Some fly in intelligent circles, some pick off dragon riders one by one.

I watch in terror as a fearsome silver creature the likes of which I’ve never seen swoops low over the ledge of harpoon men.  It swings its claws down and smacks each of them off the crease.  As it swoops off, it blast a funnel of fire at the nearest boats. 

It’s terrifying to watch.  It almost like the dragons have called upon reinforcements, as if they’re _attacking_ the trappers.  As much as I hated the organization, I shiver in terror for them. 

I notice with a coil of guilt that the Boneknapper is nowhere to be seen.  I hardly have the time to do anything more than hope he’s okay.

Slowly, I push myself to my feet.  I feel feverish and shaky, and there is something hot and wet coursing down my spine.  Numbly, I press a hand to the back of my head; I’m dimly surprised to feel the same hot wetness welling between my fingers. 

The world spins when I stand on two legs.  An explosive burst of fire hits the glacier half a dozen meters from where I stand.  The glacier shakes.  I throw out my arm in an attempt to cushion my fall, but the ice is even more unforgiving on my second fall. 

“YOU.”

Dazed and confused, I blink around and turn towards the noise – a startled gasp rips from me.  I’m on the ledge with the pits of dragons.  I can see Orochi’s enclosure there, in the distance, and I can see his furious struggles against the chains. 

Too busy thanking the gods for this incredible stroke of luck, I fail to notice the fuming brick wall marching towards me until it’s too late. 

Reiner grabs my shirt in his fists, dragging me to my feet.  I choke and tear up from the ash, but he only grows angrier, fists clenching beneath my chin.  Blearily, I try to focus on him, but my vision is blurring and everything _hurts_ , everything hurts so damn much. 

Behind him, the largest explosion yet rocks the cavern, but its fury is nothing compared to the anger in his blue eyes.  The shrieks are deafening, but there is no mistaking his words when he speaks to me in a low, dangerous growl. 

“Where.  Is.  _Bertl._ ”

Bertl?  _Bert._

“Boat,” I gag.  Lips curling, he shakes me violently, sending throbs of pain through my entire body.  I moan weakly until he stops. 

“I’ll ask you once again.  Where.  Is.  My.  _Bertl._ ”

“My boat,” I gasp out this time, shuttering my eyes from his seething glare.  “In… my… room…”

His grip loosens, then he drops me entirely.  I fall to the ice like a sack of potatoes.  Blinking up at him, I stare in bewilderment.  He shakes his arm impatiently, jangling a massive black key clutched in one of his beefy hands.

“Your dragon,” he says irritably.  “Go get it.”

That kickstarts something inside me. 

I snatch the key away from him and stagger to my feet.  Not sparing the man another glance, I take off over the snow towards the furthermost pit before he can take it back. 

Running like this is bad.  I know that.  I sway from side to side and veer this way and that.  My vision blurs and blackens at random, and the world spins so violently I’m not entirely certain that it hasn’t all just gone mad.  But I hear Orochi’s frightened bellow, hear the jangle of chains, and I cannot stop. 

I don’t fall to a crouch beside the hatch as much as I trip into it.  More searing pain in my side.  Grimacing, I shove my key into the lock and jangle it this way and that.  I cry hoarsely with relief when it swings open. 

Through the pit’s hatch explodes Orochi.  He bursts past me, exploding into the air and soaring above.  His dark wings slice through the smoke like a graceful swallow.  I croak a weak shadow of his name. 

He hits the ice besides me clumsily – a Thunderdrum’s sonic boom knocks him to the ground at the last second.  I fear of broken bones or injury from hitting the ice, but he rises and wraps himself around me with all appearances of health. 

In fact, he croons and cuddles me.  He tucks my head beneath his wing and nuzzles my hair nervously.   

I reach out and touch his hot, scaly shoulder, and I notice only then my fingers are covered in blood.  _Oh._ _Okay._

Orochi sniffs at my hand then croaks fearfully, shoving his ears back.  The fire reflects in his eyes and along his smooth black scales.  His wings wrap swiftly around me, sheltering my ears from another concussive Thunderdrum boom. 

“Am I ever glad to see you,” I breathe more than say, throwing my arm around his neck in a brief embrace.  I can’t tell if the tears wetting my cheeks are from the ash or him.  I don’t know if the violent spasm that rocks my body is a choke or a sob. 

The frantic nudge of his nose against my legs turns into a firm headbutt.  Shoving me towards his back, he squeals and groans and clicks between explosions.  His eyes beg to leave, his eyes fret over me, his eyes are so filled with love that I can hardly manage to keep from collapsing at his feet. 

It’s faintly worrying, how difficult it is to swing my leg onto his back.  His bare scales have never felt so good against my legs as they do in this moment.  Pressing my forehead to his neck, I wrap my arm around him as tightly as I can manage, squeezing his sides with my thighs. 

“Go, buddy,” I whisper through chokes or sobs, I don’t know.  “Get us out of here.”

He bounds over the ice, but takes none of his typical merriness in it.  Springing quickly into the air, he swerves to avoid an awry bolt of fire that explodes against the glacier.  His terrified roar joins the other shrieks, unheard by any except me. 

I break into another coughing fit as we leave the safety of the glacier behind, entering the haze of smoke hanging in the air.  Somewhere in my working mind, I tell myself that that is good – he can use echolocation, other dragons cannot, he has the advantage here. 

I simply cannot breathe. 

He flies quickly, quietly, not drawing attention to himself.  More than once, he hurls to the side to avoid something I can’t see – sometimes, something releases a war cry.  Other times, it’s a shriek of pain.  Once, the body of some poor creature falls right beside us. 

The choking sobs wracking through my body only grow worse and worse – the knot of grief only grows larger in my chest after each terrible scream, the ash in the air growing thicker and thicker still.  Orochi’s concerned purring beneath my fingertips is the only thing that keeps me clutching quite so tightly to him.  I would’ve fallen off long before otherwise. 

Once, I think I glimpse Annie in the smoke, on the back of a Deadly Nadder, but my vision is too blurred to be trusted. 

At last, through the fog, I see light.  A small crack of a voice bursts from my lips, a quivering smile spreading across my face.  I tuck my face against Orochi’s neck as he angles himself parallel with the crack. 

His wings whistle as he cuts upwards.  We slice through the smoke, bursting out into the great, wide open.  Orochi roars at his freedom and triumph. 

Rarely, ever so rarely, the day is good.  The sun beats down on us cheerfully, the sun rays already orange as it slides into the late afternoon.  The sky is so beautifully, beautifully blue, and the thin wisps of clouds the most gorgeous white I’ve ever seen.  Beyond this behemoth glacier there is only the sea, the black sea as far as the eye can see, and how I have missed the kiss of the waves against the sky. 

I throw my head back in a hysterical laugh.  Orochi roars again with me, climbing higher and higher into the turquoise sky.  The single plume of grey smoke billowing out from the crack in the glacier and the distant echoes of the terrible, bloody battle below are behind us.  We have escaped. 

And not a moment too soon. 

My blood turns to ice at a familiar scream from inside the glacier’s cavern, its spine-tingling roar making the glacier beneath us quiver like dry leaves in the breeze.  It sends ripples across the water, quivers through the air, shaking the very sky. 

Orochi squeaks, dipping in the air, struggling to right himself.  I clutch to him only tighter, knowing very well that only one creature could’ve made such a terrible, terrible noise. 

“The Screaming Death,” I whisper hoarsely, a wry, crooked sort of smile stealing over my face. 

Orochi rumbles deep in his chest, the beats of his wings imbued with new verve.  An updraft whisks us away, our shadow dancing over the open water of the ocean.  Still, the cries of the Screaming Death fill my ears, distant now, but just as terrifying.  In my periphery, I glimpse an eruption of colorful dragons from the crack, frantically trying to escape the monster within. 

“You did good, buddy,” I murmur, burying my nose into Orochi’s neck again.  He purrs happily, garbling something softly.  To my ears, it sounds like a compliment as well, if not tinged with concern. 

I glance down at my ribs.  Everything is slick.  My bandage is ripped and frayed.  Not only that, but red trickles down Orochi’s scales in dark, sticky rivulets, leaving glistening trails in its wake.  Revolted, I shove my face back into his neck. 

Queasy and lightheaded, I mumble wearily, “Look for a place to stop, okay, bud?  I need… rest.”

If I had the energy, I’d be terrified.  Blood loss is a killer.  I know that.  I know the symptoms, the lethargy, the dizziness.  Wounds undressed can not only bleed more, but also add infection to the diagnosis. 

The proper thing to do here it to put pressure on the injuries, keep myself from getting any closer to bleeding out than I already have.  However, I’d have to use my hand to do that.  I tilt my head to the side and idly watch another slow-moving bead of blood drip down Orochi’s side.   One arm means I can only do one thing – fall or keep myself from dying. 

I’ve fallen from Orochi too many times recently.  Clutching him tighter, I nuzzle against him, pressing my heavy head against his scales. 

Sharks would surely eat me in a second if I were to fall, if the fall itself did not.  Idly, I watch the gleaming water until it disappears – cool moisture pools on my cheeks, on my eyelids, on my sweaty forehead.  A sigh escapes my chapped lips. 

Even if I wanted to die in the ocean, eaten be sharks, I couldn’t.  I try to command myself to lift my head and shake the droplets free.  It doesn’t happen.  My bones ache and my muscles shudder.  The smoke has ruined my lungs, making each breath more painful than the last.  Dry, my eyes slowly succumb to the heavy eyelids threatening to droop over them. 

I watch the beautiful clouds through a small sliver, smiling ever so slightly.  They’re absolutely gorgeous today, turned golden by the beautiful, beautiful sun, a topaz blanket as far as the eye can see, like the color of well-used piece of parchment.  It looks almost like the clouds over Berk.  It would be lovely to fly over Berk again. 

Orochi’s frightened croon briefly jolts my eyes open.  I tuck my face against him, sighing long and slow.  _Oh, my friend.  At least I freed you._  

A moment later, I blink in surprise, distantly frightened by my own lack of will.  Is this death, then?  Is this my heavenly passage to Valhalla?  Glory on the back of a noble Night Fury, the golden sun watching me as I ascend? 

Or maybe I won’t go to Valhalla.  Who knows.  Certainly not I.

I feel Orochi growl beneath me, a mighty, thundering sort of thing that vibrates through my entire body.  Through my crescents of vision, I stare stupidly at a moving ripple in the clouds beside us.  It swells and Orochi’s growling swells and then something breeches the clouds. 

A horn?  A bird? 

My vision is blurring, but there is something there, something in the sky alongside us.  I blink a few times, a sigh heaving through me, and when I open my eyes again –

_Oh._

I lift my head and gape at the figure beside me. 

Cleaving through the billowing clouds, they soar smoothly alongside me.  They watch me in an ominous silence.  Behind them, a blood red cape flutters in the wind. Adorned in colored armor and a crown of dragon horns, they watch me unwaveringly. Though a mask hides it, I know that their face must surely be beautiful as well.  A surge of fear tightens my grip around Orochi. 

Who is this man?  Who is this person who walks on the clouds?  Not walks, but glides? 

_They must be a god,_ my mind answers fearfully.  _They certainly look the part._

Staff twisting in their hand, the god descends again, disappearing beneath the clouds.  A weak croak escapes my throat, and I almost reach out for them.  The fear of being in the presence of a god is certainly less terrible than the thought of being abandoned by one. 

“Come back,” I mouth, staring at the golden sea of clouds.  Desperation closes up my throat. 

A mighty roar sounds from beneath us, and the clouds erupt below.  I jerk upright to see what, my grip on Orochi’s scales slipping.  Time seems to slow – I can see his wings slamming out as he tries to avoid running into the creature from below.  I can see its blazing yellow eyes, set deep into its squared face.  Orochi jolts midair.  I try to grab his shoulder, but I’m thrown backwards.  His warmth is wrenched away, and everything jolts terrifyingly back into life. 

The bright, beautiful sky slips from me – I scream and throw my hand upwards to grab at the grey clouds.  Terror and desolation replace any complacency with death.  I don’t want to die here, I don’t want to die in this bitter, grey world I’ve condemned myself too, but I only fall faster, faster, _faster_ , the cold wind whistling in my ears _._ The world above the clouds is a distant dream. 

Distantly, I hear Orochi roar.  A choked sob jerks through my chest.  For the briefest moment, I think I see him burst through the clouds in pursuit of me.  I reach my hand up, as if he could catch me, but –

I hit the ocean and everything goes black. 

 


	5. Dragon Sanctuary

Eren wrings the hilt of sword in frustration.  He knows the others are watching, gauging his reaction, but he’s having difficulty caring about that.  To find something so important, something so damn _significant,_ only to be further than ever from Marco…

It’s infuriating. 

A once-massive glacier now peppers the ocean in tiny bergs as far as the eye can see, torn apart by the Screaming Death.  The ice glistens harshly, unweathered and sharp, where it’d been shaven from other chunks by the dragon’s grinding teeth.  The only signs of life in the stagnant desolation are long gone – Erwin’s dragon frightened off the scavengers peeling the rotting skin off the bones of those bobbing with icebergs through the water.  The ice’s pink stain suggests a story of bloody conflict, but the sea is black and holds her secrets close to her breast.

There is only the quiet of death.  There is only the macabre trace of truth.  They have only assumption. 

And it’s not good enough. 

“We’ve got to be cheerful about this, at least!” Hanji chirps, bouncing past Eren with armfuls of scrolls.  “Although, frankly, I’m a bit bummed about the lack of Screaming Deaths – would’ve been fascinating to see if it recognized me – must’ve been angry –”

“I don’t think we wanted to meet this beast,” Erwin says thoughtfully, gliding a finger over a groove in the ice where the Screaming Death cut through.  “It overthrew an operation of a considerable size relatively singlehandedly.”

“Well, we don’t know that!” Hanji argues, speaking over their shoulder as they shove the parchment into their dragon’s saddlebag unceremoniously.  “I mean, look at the dragon bodies – so many variety, it must’ve been a wonder – there are just as many as people, if not more.  Who knows what triggered it?” 

Levi snorts.  “Probably the giant-ass dragon.  Shitheads should’ve known better than to try and keep that thing.” 

“It didn’t end up to good for them, did it?” Ymir chuckles, surveying the floating carnage with a grimly satisfied glow. 

“The Archipelago has her ways of protecting us from outsiders,” Erwin says with a sage smile towards the horizon. 

“Oi, you’re not an elder yet, old man,” Levi scoffs, cuffing the Chief affectionately. 

Erwin rolls his eyes, smiling. 

“If you’re done acting like a married couple,” Ymir sighs, “we can actually start tracking the boy down, you know.  I don’t see no freckled corpses.”

Mikasa shakes her head.  “We can’t.”

Ymir pauses, whirling around to face the group – her narrow eyes flit about suspiciously.  “What?”

“We don’t know where to begin looking for him,” Eren forces out between his gritted teeth, mustering a half-hearted glare to meet Ymir’s. 

“And even if we had a hint,” Erwin says placatingly, “I’m not sure we should continue to assume the boy still breathes.  This was a massacre – we have no reason to believe he lasted even this long.”

Ymir curls her lip stubbornly.  “I don’t see no freckled corpses,” she insists.

“That doesn’t mean there wasn’t once one,” Hanji murmurs, pointing out towards the ocean.

Eren watches listlessly as the pack of Seashockers silently drifts up and drags a body beneath the waves.  Little more than whorl on the surface betrays their presence.  He can imagine Marco’s floating body disappearing beneath the waves all too easily.  It makes his heart hurt. 

There is a moment of ambiguous silence.  The plate of ice bounces on the waves beneath their feet, wobbling under the weight of so many men and dragons. 

“So what do you suggest we do then?” Ymir demands, eyes hurt and tone disgusted.  “Are we – just going to turn back and go home?  After six fucking days of travelling the whole fucking ocean, we’re gonna turn tail and run?  Just like that?”

Hanji tilts their head to one side.  “I don’t ever remember saying that,” they note, grinning. 

“What is it that you want to do, shitty glasses?” Levi asks flatly. 

Their glasses gleam maniacally.  “I’m thinking… that Screaming Death hasn’t seen the last of us.”

* * *

 

They can’t last much longer without food.  Reiner knows that. 

As the tiny excuse for an iceberg had been carried southward by the current, they’d been blessed with traces of the melting glacier water.  In the first few hours, he’d managed to fish a crate of roughly woven blankets from the ocean. 

That was a long time ago, though.  They hadn’t seen anything like that for quite a while.

Reiner worries about Bertholdt.  He’s always worried about Bertholdt, but now more than ever.  When he’d first found him, he was wrapped up underwater in the sinking body of a dead dragon, kicking towards what he must’ve thought was the surface.  Reiner dragged him to the surface, pulled them onto an iceberg. 

Bertl had seemed to pass out afterwards, cuddled against Reiner’s side.  He hadn’t watched the base get ripped to shreds by the white monster.  For that, Reiner’s thankful. 

However, he’d seen the aftermath. 

Waves lapped at the sides of the iceberg, ripping chunk after chunk from its side.  Only a small amount of the old fortress had remained, a tiny white plateau, mounted only by a single lopsided harpoon.  The rest of it was strewn about in little bergs like theirs, stepping stones of white on the horizon.  Wreckage bobbed in the water like sitting gulls on a bay.  Bodies, too, floated in the ocean.  Bertholdt had recognized a few of them, cried at their unseeing eyes turned upwards towards the brutal sun. 

A shiver runs down his spine.  The eyes had been the worst part. 

Gritting his teeth, Reiner clutches Bertholdt’s sleeping body closer to him.  He’s slightly cold to the touch and deathly pale, but Reiner can feel the his breath against his knuckles if he cradles Bertholdt’s face in his hand. 

Reiner strokes Bertholdt’s hair from his forehead.  He looks so vulnerable in his arms despite being so massive, sprawled out limply, feet hanging off the edge of the iceberg.  His boots had apparently fallen off at some point while in the ocean.   There hadn’t been much time to focus on things like shoes in the water dangerous water, so neither of them had noticed. 

Even now, days after the last of Annie’s fleet disappeared over the horizon and hours after the party of Vikings had scavenged the area like savages, they’re not completely safe.    Pirate ships rock on his periphery, and the shadows of predatory dragons black out the sun.  Not only that, but without food, they won’t last much longer at all. 

Subconsciously, he grips Bertholdt tighter, leaning back against the ice.  _He’s thinner than he used to be,_ Reiner notices worriedly. 

He growls softly, cuddling Bertholdt tighter against his chest.  With the entire ocean of fish beneath them and a sky filled with birds above, he can’t find even one thing for them to eat. 

Another shadow passes overhead.  Reiner grits his teeth and rubs at Bertholdt’s arm, trying to warm him through friction.  It’s a constant battle, their own body warmth against the ice beneath them.  Any heat is precious – the cold is vicious, nipping, and eager to steal the breath from their bodies. 

Are Bertholdt’s lips blue?  Or is that only the blueness of the sky, the waves, and the ice tricking his eyes?  He pushes the hair from his forehead again, swiping his thumb along Bertholdt’s cheekbone. 

The shadow passes again.  He grits his teeth and glares out at the ocean, searching the empty seas for any sign of life beyond their own, gut knotting in a mixture of frustration and desperation.  They can’t last like this.  Bertholdt needs food, he needs to eat… and some food for himself wouldn’t hurt, either. 

For a third time, the looming shadow crosses the sun.  Frowning, Reiner glares up at the sky, looking for its caster.  The sky is strangely as empty as the sea, which is, of course, never good. 

With the unshakeable feeling that something is up, Reiner hesitantly glances back at their little camp.  All the weapons they have in their name is a blunt cooking knife and a corroded dagger.  Assuming they have enough strength to use them, they’re not much to fend off the huge hunters of the sea. 

Still feeling as though they’re being watched by unfriendly eyes, Reiner presses a chaste kiss to Bertholdt’s forehead.  He clutches him tighter, his own eyes locked on the sky in a stubborn vigil.

* * *

 

The first time I regain consciousness, it’s brief.  There is only the burning pain in my side and the chill of the air against my bare skin – that terrible feeling of being both hot and cold in fever.  Blurry shapes move when I peek open my eyes.  I watch the shadow of a man shuffle around the room. 

There is a voice.  It’s sometimes muffled, sometimes clear, always unfamiliar, but it’s kind. 

Hands, too, hands that sweep back my hair to rest cool towels on my forehead and that wrap warm blankets around me.  Through heavy lips I murmur my gratitude.  I’m not sure if it gets across.  The gentle hands and voice vanish shortly after. 

The second time, I’m more or less force-fed a fishy soup – the hands are much less gentle as they pry my mouth open to pour broth down my throat.  When I finally choke it down, they replace my pillow with another one.  I sigh happily at the coolness, and they chuckle.  In the corner of my eye, I glimpse a pale face, but nothing more.  They leave me in peace afterwards. 

With a small moan, I shift in bed, awaking now for the third time.  My muscles feel stiff and unused, like I’ve been sleeping for a very long time.  The bandages around my chest feel soft and light.  Humming, I peek my eyes open, half expecting to be home in my bed. 

I’m not.

My cozy bed of fluffy furs and soft pillows is nestled between walls of ice. The thick walls are smooth and I can see clearly through them for quite a ways.  The light that shines through gives everything an eerie, green-blue filter.  Though the towering ice continues upwards for quite a ways, they form a ceiling that no natural sunlight could breach; the only way in and out is through a tunnel I can’t see the end of. 

Startled, I prop myself up off my pillow. 

Grey stones are stacked in odd corners of the cave, thrown aside from the center where a little camp has been constructed on the bare dirt.  Glancing around at abundant animal furs and drying fish, I realize bewilderedly that someone _lives_ here. 

A cauldron and simple tools like knives and awns are scattered across a roughly hewn table.  Pots and pans hang from a rack set into the wall beside it.  My bed is tucked against the opposite side, with a massive elk pelt hung across the ice to help keep me warm.  A bookshelf piled high with ingredients and spices is nestled against my bed, and a desk littered with maps and parchment is tucked away in the darkest corner.  In the center of the room, a small fire sparks half-heartedly at old, sooty logs. 

Beside me, curled up on the floor, is Orochi.  A breathy laugh bubbles from my lips.  His head lifts, eyes opening and meeting my gaze.  His eyes widen with excitement and his ears perk.  I have half a second to see his grin before he attacks with a gleeful squeal. 

“Agh!”  He butts me onto my back and plants a paw on either side of my shoulders.  I’m caged, powerless to do anything but yelp as he aggressively cleans my face. 

“Ew, ew, ew!” I laugh, wriggling away from him and turning my face away.  “Stop it, stop it!”

Orochi moans, nudging his nose against my uninjured shoulder.  He gurgles for a few moments, pouting.  With a heavy sigh, he picks himself up off my bed, shaking it violently.  I thank him silently for not collapsing on top of me like he usually does – my ribcage is already throbbing.

Lying down beside me, he rests his chin on the sheets next to my head.  His eyes glow with a soft light.  Affectionately, he blows puff of air over my face and croons.  I smile tenderly, pursing lips and blowing air gently back to him.

I stroke a single finger gently along the ridges of his forehead, tracing the shallow grooves of his scales.  He leans into my touch, my purring his content.  His eyes blink slowly.  Never once does his gaze leave mine.  To have his attention so utterly focused on me – my heart swells almost painfully with affection. 

“Where are we, buddy?” I whisper, scratching him behind the ears.  He tilts his head to one side, as if asking a question himself. 

“Well, I don’t know,” I say, studying the contents of the bookshelf from afar.  “A home, I reckon.  Maybe a hermit.  Can’t be the trappers – or maybe it could be?  How long was I out?”

Orochi sighs heavily, rolling his eyes dramatically.  _Too long._

Laughing, I shake my head.  “Right, right, sure.  Could be Valhalla, but –“  Skeptically, I glance down at him.  “I don’t see why you’d be here with me.  Besides, this seems like a weird place for an afterlife.”

His tail twitches. 

“True,” I say ruefully, “I don’t know much about Valhalla, do I?  So this very well could be it.” 

He leans forward and curiously licks my chin.  I scowl, but I don’t bother to push him away. 

“Well, there’s no way to know unless I –“  Grimacing, I swing my body upright in bed.  The pain blossoms over my ribcage as I shove my legs over the side.  I gasp, soft and pained. 

Orochi rumbles in alarm, shifting his body away from my bedside for me.  He nudges against my chest worriedly, taking my weight as I lean onto him. 

Setting the soles of my bare feet on the cool ground is strangely refreshing.  Damp earth brushes against my toes.  A small, breathless laugh forces its way from my lungs. 

“Look at that, buddy,” I half-say, half-giggle.  My arm slips around his neck in a semi-embrace.  “Did you ever think we’d be standing again, huh?”

Orochi rumbles again and butts his forehead against my arm. 

Bracing my arm on him, I say, “Okay, bud, hold on for half a second…”

I heave myself onto my feet with his help.  The world rocks a bit, but, leaning heavily on Orochi, I’m able to stand.  He bears my weight readily.  His huge eyes watch me and my every move carefully – it makes me feel safe. 

I peck his forehead with an excited kiss. 

“I wanna try walking,” I mumble, nodding towards the single tunnel, staring hungrily at the sunlight leaking through.  “I wanna see what’s beyond…”

The first step is difficult.  It’s more of a shuffle forward than anything, and still, Orochi is supporting most of my weight.  Patiently, he pads alongside me, keeping pace with my stuttering walk. 

Finding my balance again proves tricky.  With all that I’ve been bedridden, my legs seem to have forgotten how to work.  If I start to fall, I can’t throw out a pair of arms to steady myself – I can only trust Orochi to catch me.  He does, every time.    The distance between us and the tunnel wanes. 

Slowly, my strides elongate.  I step over a stone just for the fun of it, swept with accomplishment when my foot hits the other side successfully. 

_They must be broken,_ I think glumly, glancing down at the clean bandages around my torso. 

There are other things, too.  My head feels absolutely awful, throbbing and pounding.  Odd cuts and scratches cover my torso, not only the stinging wounds carved into my side by the Boneknapper, though those look much better.  Judging by the soreness of my back, it must be painted with purple bruises.  The muscles of my legs burn slightly, exhausted already by simply limping through the cave. 

The ice is harder to walk on.  It’s less pleasant than the soft soil on my toes and slippery.  If my traction slips, at least Orochi is there to catch me.  I begin to focus less on the falling of my feet and upon the light at the end of the tunnel, much to his chagrin.  Leaning forward and squinting my eyes, I slip again and slam into his neck. 

“Sorry,” I murmur.  He snorts and whacks me with his ear flaps, expression one of disdain. 

Still, I’m drawn to the sunlight like a mouth to the flame.  Through the blinding whiteness of it, I catch the glimpse of green – green like moss, like grass, like _Berk –_

Grinning, I limp excitedly out into the light. 

The warmth of sunlight washes over my skin – closing my eyes, I turn my face up to the sky and smile stupidly.  Another laugh bursts from somewhere within me, I’m not sure.  Bravely releasing Orochi I turn my palm up to the sun, shivering at the warmth of it. 

My eyes open to a crack.  The sunlight is golden, like it is on Orochi’s special flights.  It’s almost as if it’s welcoming us back. 

Something moves.  My eyes snap open, and I stumble back into Orochi, startled.  I struggle for breath, closing my hand around one of his ear flaps for security.  Sharing this space with us are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of _dragons_. 

They soar gracefully through the air, marching in an organized spiral around a center column, of sorts – more colors, more sizes, more varieties than I’ve ever seen, never mind living together.  Monstrous Nightmares, Shockjaws, Prickleboggles – flying peacefully together, in a cavern of stone with a ceiling of ice. 

Or perhaps it’s not a ceiling.  The golden light shafts down, shedding the dragons in vivid light, but the ice crystals loom upwards as far as I can see, coming together at the top.  I crane my neck upwards, but there’s nothing further for me to see. 

Along the walls of the gigantic cavern, where green foliage grows on ledges and hills, vibrant hatchlings hop from rocky outcropping to rocky outcropping.  A few elegant Windstrikers dart through roaring torrents on the far side, dancing with the rainbows in the waterfalls’ mist.  Dragons doze and sunbathe on every free surface. 

Realizing I’ve been holding my breath, I gasp for air.  It smells sweetly of crisp ice and green vegetation.  A delighted laugh rumbles from me. 

Something growls darkly in response. 

I jump backwards against Orochi, digging my fingers nervously into his scales, as a corpulent Hotburple staggers to its feet on the ledge we share.  Glaring reproachfully with tiny eyes, it snorts grouchily and ambles off.  Its massive tree-trunk legs shake the entire ledge with every step. 

Orochi huffs after it, bristling slightly.  I rub at his tensed muscles, sighing with relief. 

“What the hell is this place, bud?” I whisper.  He presses his warm body against me, possessively growling after the Hotburple.

A loud roar breaks through the din of noisy dragons.  It echoes, amplified by the icy quarters of the cavern.  All but the babies lift their heads and fall still, staring unwaveringly at the far side of the haven.  The only movement in the entirety of them all is there, among the stalactites – massive silvery wings unfurling. 

I clutch Orochi closer. 

The dragon launches itself from the stalactites, spreading its wings wide.  As it steadies its large body into even flight, I take the opportunity to study the foreign creature.  The wings are patterned lightly and it only has two legs, tucked up against its body. 

It slices through the rainbows in the mist, sweeps through the golden light.  Two amber eyes burn like brands.

There is a figure on the crook of its neck.  Something stirs in the back of my mind – a memory, almost, of a feeling of belittlement.  My stomach knots tightly as the dragon glides across the cavern towards us, a grey shadow through the green. 

Fearfully, I take a half step backwards, tucking myself behind Orochi’s extended wings.  He growls lowly, eyes flicking between me and the dragon. 

As it soars up to our ledge, another pair of wings burst out from beneath the larger pair.  Four wings beating in glorious unison, it casts its shadow down upon us.  From its darkness, two yellow eyes burn like suns.  The wind it beats up pushes the hair from my face and throws dust into my eyes. 

I realize my mouth is hanging open and snap it shut. 

Beyond the thick horns and bristling red frill, the armored man raises his staff in eerie silence.  I feel as if he’s staring at me, though of course his turquoise dragonic mask reveals nothing.  The dragon snarls and roars again down at us, bearing a broad mouth of teeth. 

_I remember them._

I breathe in slowly, allowing the delirious memories of the golden clouds to pour back over me – fevered dreams.  Dreams of a beautiful blue dragon god guiding me to Valhalla and of being cast down, down to an unruly ocean.  Dreams – memories? – of his magnificent silver mount, its glorious pairs of wings slicing through the sky.  Of their spectacular warmth and of the glory of heaven they brought with them. 

My mouth’s fallen open again.  This time, I don’t bother to correct it. 

The man – or perhaps god – shakes the staff in his hand, and it rattles hollowly.  With a begrudging grumble, the beautiful dragon closes its wings by its sides and lunges for our ledge. 

Orochi and I stagger backwards towards the hole to accommodate the dragon’s size.  I gawk at its lower pair of wings set against the ground like legs, talons clacking against the stone.  With the second pair, it reaches up for the rider standing behind its decorative frill.  In the motion, I catch a glimpse the remarkably flat and broad neck of the dragon that the man stands upon. 

The person hooks their staff over the dragon’s claw, and it lifts them effortlessly from its neck and sets them onto the ground.  Their tattered red cape flutters behind them, and their boots make no noise as they touch the ground.  The moment they unhook their staff, they sink into a crouch with a feline litheness. 

The dragon man does not break eye contact with me throughout it all.   In an almost religious silence, the black sockets of his painted mask stare blankly back at me.   

“Who are you?” I whisper breathlessly.  In response, they move closer. 

Orochi lowers his head and growls at the man, wrapping his tail protectively around me.  Without looking away from me, they shift their body weight, lifting an open palm in front of my dragon.  He moves it hypnotically back and forth, and Orochi’s eyes follow it.  The man presses his palm down towards the ground forcefully with an air of finality about the motion. 

With a satisfied rumble, Orochi happily collapses onto the ground beside me.  Yelping, I stumble, hurling my one good arm out for balance.  Legs trembling, I glance from my dragon to this creature.  There isn’t a comfort or a threat in his lifeless black sockets.  Somehow, that’s so much worse.  

_How had they done that?_

The other dragon sits back on its haunches, folding its top pair of wings against its sides like a normal creature would.  Its intelligent yellow eyes watch me curiously. Its previous fire in them seems to have been snuffed out.  Now, the dragon seems merely haughty.  It snorts contentedly towards Orochi – its nose is covered in small, bony plates, and as it snorts, those plates rattle.  I stifle a giggle at the strange noise.  

For the first time, the dragon man’s head turns away from me to glance at his mount.  Though it’s brief, it seems affectionate. 

Softly, hesitantly, I ask, “What sort of dragon is that?”

Their head swivels back around to me, and they freeze in place.  I’m not even sure of they breathe for that moment.  Slowly, their long fingers reach up and hook beneath their helmet.  After a moment of hesitation, they pull it from their head – tucking the painted masterpiece beneath an arm, they run their other hand through their hair. 

My breath catches in my throat. 

I’m greeted with a handsome face, long and pale, sharp as a razor.  Shaggy, blonde hair sticks up in weird ways after being on the inside of the helmet, but the shaven sides of their head are dark and soft-looking.  They bashfully meet my gaze, eyes golden like a dragon’s and incredibly beautiful, and a blush spreads over their high cheekbones. 

My heartbeat hammers in my veins. 

Glancing away from me, they mumble something unintelligible. 

“What was that?” I say, offering him my kindest smile and my gentlest voice. 

He clears his throat and squares his shoulders.  “Stormcutter.  She’s a Stormcutter.”  His voice is sharp, but the words are distinctively unpracticed.  It makes him sound vulnerable – and slightly lunatic.   

“Ah,” I say, nodding.  “I’ve never seen one before.  She’s gorgeous.”

There’s fierceness to his gaze when he swings it back up to meet mine again.  “Who’re you?” the man bluntly demands. 

I spread my hand placatingly.  “Marco Bodt.”  Nervously, I glance at the staff still clutched in his hand.  “Just a simple Viking from a simple town.  I promise, I’m no threat to you.”

“Marco,” he says, testing it on his tongue.  “Marco Bodt.”

Smiling thinly, I laugh tensely, “Yes, that’s it.  That’s my name.”

His eyes soften slightly.  Cocking his head to what looks like an unnatural and uncomfortable degree, he gestures towards my bandages.  “Why were you flying?”

“Flying?”

“With injuries.”  He narrows his eyes.  “No saddle.  Injuries.  One arm.”

“Um, it’s a long story,” I say apologetically, pivoting self-consciously to hide my lack of an arm from him.   

“We have time,” he points out, looking rather unimpressed. 

“Right,” I chuckle nervously.  “I, uh.  I was out with some friends and some trappers kidnapped me.  Their dragon – it put the gashes in my side.”  His eyes widen.  “They brought me back to their base and kept me hostage for – I don’t know how long.  I was escaping with Orochi when you – you found me, didn’t you?”  I watch him carefully.  “That was you?”

He nods sharply.  “We knocked you from the saddle.”  His eyes narrow.  “It was an accident.

“And you brought me back here?” I ask, glancing timidly around the chamber.  “You… patched me up?”

“It was the least I could do,” he says, yanking his head around to hide a small flush of his cheeks.  His gaze trains aggressively on some point on the left wall. 

“I suppose,” I chuckle, further soothed by his bashfulness.  “But still.  It was kind.  Thank you.”

He grunts and whips his head around to stare tenaciously between his boots.  The tips of his ears are bright red. 

“Where is here, exactly?” I ask hesitantly, glancing about.  “And, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

“Jean,” he answers readily, lifting his head all too eagerly – blushing again, he tucks it against his chest.  Much softer, he says, “Call me Jean.”

“Nice to meet you, Jean,” I smile.  “You have a nice name.”  It’s a name that sounds vaguely familiar, but I don’t let that bother me just this moment – I’ve got to keep the conversation going, keep him appeased…  Despite his awkwardness, he hasn’t been hostile yet, but that could change in the blink of an eye if I don’t keep my guard up. 

“So, Jean, what is this place?  I’ve – I’ve never seen anything like it.”  As if to accentuate me, a pair of bright Hackatoos bullet past, squawking and beating their vibrant wings.  I stumble from their sudden appearance.  His eyes flash up and watch me carefully; whether he’s watching for weakness or wondering if he should help, I’m not sure. 

“There are many dragons here,” Jean murmurs quietly, blinking owlishly up at the sunlight.  “It’s a home for them.  A family.  A den.  The den of the great Bewilderbeast.”

And with that, he shakes his staff and strides boldly to the edge of our crag.  His magnificent dragon slinks fluidly from his path.  Carefully, I follow his footsteps, slower because of the shaking burn in my calves.  He makes walking over the stone so effortless and graceful – it makes me feel like a hobbling troll. 

Jean touches my arm with the very tips of his cold fingers as I stagger to his side, panting, and points outwards with his staff. 

“Behold, the Bewilderbeast,” he whispers. 

In the belly of the cavern lies a monster.  With every breath, it rocks like a ship on turbulent seas, and now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t hear anything but the sounds of those pants echoing through the cavern.  Its entire body is covered in long white spines standing erect like the quills of a Nadder.  My mouth falls open at the sheer size of it – the giant puts the Screaming Death to shame.  In fact, the entirety of that terrible worm could probably curl up on the tip of its gigantic nose. 

I’ve seen a diagram of such a creature before, in one of Hanji’s old books.  I’ve seen those blunt tusks long as a half dozen ships end-to-end and feared them before. 

A low, fearful hiss escapes me.  I flinch backwards in a clumsy stagger of lolling limbs.  The blood drains from my face, I’m sure of it.  Horrified, I turn to Jean. 

“That thing… I know about those things,” I say in a terried, breathy voice.  “They’re all supposed to be dead.”

Jean cocks his head to an uncomfortable degree, almost so that he’s looking at me sideways.  “You do not know enough,” he mumbles skeptically.  “Bewilderbeast are not.  _Evil._ They’re not vicious, even.  Show respect.”

That, I can accept.  Many ancient depictions of even the mildest of dragons – the Terrible Terror, the Gronckle – describe them as terrible, bloodthirsty beasts.  Loki above knows how skewed the Night Furies’ legends were.  But…

“They’re supposed to be dead,” I whisper curiously, creeping back towards the edge.  It peeks open its tiny eyes ever so slightly, watching me from beneath its lids.  I scurry backwards out of sight. 

“Night Furies, too,” Jean says, sounding amused.  “I thought they were gone.  Dead.  Poached.  They, apparently, are not.” 

He gestures to Orochi, still rolling blissfully on the ground, and arches an eyebrow high.  His expression prompts a laugh from me – nodding ruefully, I tell him that I get his point.

“Yes.  But… _shhh_.”  Meeting my gaze intensely, he holds a finger in front of his mouth, jerking a thumb towards the Bewilderbeast with the same hand.  “Secret.  Okay?”

“Of course.”  I bow my head respectfully.  “You have my utmost discretion.”

Jean hums happily.  The corners of his lips lift in a lackadaisical smile, and his eyes rove the dragons flitting about the cavern with an absurd happiness. 

_No… not absurd.  But simple.  Simple, it is.  The dragons make him happy._ I smile to myself, looking away from him and down at the dragons as well.  _We have that in common, I suppose._

But niggling fear at the back of my mind proves louder than any sense of camaraderie at this moment.  Staging my question carefully, I pivot to face him and set my jaw. 

“I suppose, that by asking me not to share that secret with anyone, you’re saying I’ll see other people again?” I inquire neutrally, locking our gazes.  “I’ll be able to go home?”

Jean frowns deeply.  A moment of silence hangs between us.  Keeping him fixed with a steely glare, my resolve does not falter, though I can feel my heart fluttering uncertainly in my chest.  Jean squares himself up with me, still frowning, and cocks his head in that awkward way of his again. 

“Of course?”  He frowns even deeper.  “I’ll heal you.  When you’re better, you can go.  I like solitude anyway.”

“Oh, thank Thor,” I gasp, my shoulder sagging in relief.  My balance is so terrible, I almost tip forward into him before catching myself at the last second. 

“Yes.”  Jean sounds slightly concerned.  “Not… out of one prison… into another.  Nothing like that.”

“Yeah, I just…”  I hide my face in the palm of my hand, sighing raspily.  “It’s been a long week.  Or maybe more than a week.  I don’t… I don’t even _know_ how long it’s been.  I… sorry.”

“No.”  Jean’s fingertips ghost on my arm, so soft and cool as ice.  “It’s.  It’s fine.  The trappers did not look kind.  I should’ve told you first.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” I say automatically, peeking at him through my fingers.  “…And you saw the trappers?”

“Yes, I did.”  He crosses his arms over his chest, spending a lengthy moment watching Orochi.  “Did you think the dragons sprung themselves free?  No.”

“But… _why?_ ” I bluster, blinking in shock.

Jean shrugs, taking a half-step towards Orochi before he speaks.  I notice that he keeps pace with me this time – we walk side by side, shoulder to shoulder.  I try to focus not so much on his slighter, slender figure and all its grace and more on his words.  Despite my best efforts, I find myself smiling down at him as he talks anyway. 

“Because they were cruel.  They had free dragons.  My dragons.  I wouldn’t let them be so mean to any creatures.  But especially my dragons.  You were… a happy accident.  Shall we say.  You scared me, when I saw you through the smoke.”  His shoulder bumps awkwardly against mine, and his gaze snaps instantly to something to his right.  “Thought I’d killed an innocent man.”

“You didn’t, though,” I remind him, crouching down beside Orochi.  “It’s safe to say you probably saved me.  Jean?”

His fingers knot with one another anxiously.  Gnawing on his lower lip, he turns to me hesitantly, eyes flittering about before fixing on mine.  The tension seeps out of him a second later with a soft sigh through his nose.  I smile, and he smiles slightly in return. 

“Thank you,” I whisper sincerely, absently looping an arm around Orochi’s neck.  “Thank you for everything.”

Bashfully, he rakes a hand through his hair, smiling down at his feet like a flustered teenager.  “Ah.  What else is a crazy hermit like me supposed to do.”

I throw my head back with a peal of laughter, and he smiles more warmly than before.  The Stormcutter behind him softens its stature slightly, its tense muscles relaxing.  Its expression isn’t far from a smile itself. 

The silence after my laughter isn’t truly an awkward one, though it’s a far cry from companiable.  Jean seems content with the silence and I am content to scratch all of Orochi’s favorite places.  He, too, seems eager for my attention – the days, maybe weeks, since I’ve coddled him have left him starved for my touch, purring ferociously at the slightest of my administrations.

My calves ache from the exercise of walking out here, so, gently, I ease onto my side and stroke at Orochi’s scales.  The stone is cold and his body is warm; it’s a wonderful, wonderful feeling. 

In the corner of my eye, I notice Jean shifting his weight.  He opens his mouth twice, as if to say something, but shuts it with a self-conscious frown both times.  My heart tugs with sympathy – had I done something to make him uncomfortable with his own, admittedly limited, social skills? 

To save him from the awkwardness he must feel, I say conversationally, “I thought I wouldn’t get out of that hell, you know.”

His shoulders slump with relief, but his head cocks to one side in that same stiff, owlish fashion.  “When I… found you, you didn’t look very well.  Unhealthy.  You might not’ve.”

“Hmm.”  Smiling down at Orochi, I tickle my fingers beneath his chin.  “Fate’s always smiled on my side, it seems.  I think it’s trying to make up for robbing me an arm.  First of all I stumbled on this bastard and got a second chance at life.  Now all of this…”

I trail off, glancing at Jean with a friendly smile.

“I’m not sure I’d consider that luck,” he says, raising an eyebrow.  “You got captured.  You lost an arm.  Fairly unlucky to me.”

“Depends on your point of view,” I shrug, smiling a little guiltily.  “I’m an optimist at heart.  I make the best of what I’ve got.”

Jean pauses.  Awkwardly, he crosses his legs and sits.  After a moment or two of nothing, he scoots closer, magnificent cape dragging over the stone. 

“You seem alright for a guy with one arm,” he says bluntly.  “You’re not useless.  You’re smart.  You have a Night Fury.”

I snort – his bluntness is amusing and expected.  “I don’t really have a Night Fury, though,” I say softly, cradling his head in my lap.  Almost as if he knows I’m talking about him, his big green eyes loll open and stare adoringly up at me. 

“Orochi and I are a team,” I explain.  “I’m not his and he’s not mine.  I always hate it when people say things like that back home – owning a dragon.”  I look up into his intense golden gaze.  “What I have with him isn’t ownership.  He isn’t a pet.”

Jean’s smile reaches his eyes this time.  “Of course not,” he says gently.  “I feel the same.”

I hum happily, stroking beneath Orochi’s jaw.  Jean reaches out slowly with both of his hands, looking between me and Orochi – tenderly, he cups my dragon’s face with long, pale fingers.  They’re so much more delicate than the knobby, gnarled hands of Berk, calloused after years of working with a blade in hand.  I can’t help but stare, transfixed. 

“He is beautiful,” Jean whispers, voice thick with an emotion I can’t name.  Eyes soft and fixed on Orochi, he gently runs a thumb along his brow.  Orochi, though slightly wary, accepts his touch. 

I shake my head in disbelief.  “Look at that – he’s letting you love on him.”  I shoot him a warm smile.  “You must be amazing with dragons.”

“I had a terrible time getting around him to heal you.”  Jean chuckles a stunted, awkward little laugh.  “He loves you.”

“Orochi’s always taken care of me,” I say, turning my eyes affectionately back to him.  “He’s an amazing dragon.  I love him, too.”

I feel Jean watching me and sub consciously lift my head.  Our gazes lock.  In an unnerving, almost predatory manner, he stares unwaveringly at me, like he’s trying to see right through me.  I don’t think he even blinks. 

Uncomfortably shifting my weight, I smile awkwardly but don’t dare break eye contact first.  His eyes narrow, and my heart skips a beat. 

“I’m glad you didn’t drown,” he says, sounding satisfied, at last looking elsewhere.  His hands move away from Orochi, folding in his lap.  My dragon lifts his head curiously as Jean rises sinuously, but doesn’t show any incentive of moving away from my side. 

Jean dances up to the flank of his magnificent beast.  His movements are effortless and airy – he moves with a foreign weightlessness that’s absolutely beautiful.  I’ve never seen anything like it. 

With his slender hands, he cups the face of his own dragon.  The Stormcutter gently butts her nose against his forehead and blows a small gust of air into his face.  Jean laughs and claps her neck. 

“This is Eydis,” he announces, turning to me with burning eyes.  “She is a Stormcutter.  She’s a pompous bitch.  But very sweet.  If she likes you.”

“Oh.”  I smile harmlessly at her, marveling again at the likeness of Jean in her great yellow eyes.  “Hello, Eydis.  Thanks for allowing me to be here.”

I offer my hand to her as a formality more than anything, not truly expecting much of a response.  A graceful, aloof dragon like Stormcutters seem to be are hardly ever sociable.  Orochi whines, nudging jealously at my arm, but I silence him with a soft cluck of my tongue.  He obediently lays his head in my lap, grumbling. 

Eydis’s eyes flick down to my hand and back up to my face.  I reflexively smile wider. 

With a deep grumble partnered by the rattle of the plates on her snout, she glides forward.  Talons clicking over the stone, she lowers her head as if to charge.  She ignores my hand entirely and shoves her head closer towards me. 

At last, she screeches to a halt so closely that I can scarcely breath, perhaps an inch between our noses, and a clawed wing planted on either side of me, trapping me against the stone. 

I can feel her heat in the space between us.  Her heavy breathing feathers against my exposed neck and the underside of my outheld arm.  I stare deeply into her opaque yellow eyes, my heartbeat thundering in my chest.  I’m frozen, a bird caught by the gaze of snake. 

Her elaborate red frill rises like hackles behind her horns, making her seem even grander.  The underside of her thick horns is blue, the same powder blue on the points of the spikes on her spine and along her lower lip.  Slowly, the armored plates on the edge of her nose rattle, inches in front of my face. 

_She’s gorgeous._

“Hi,” I whisper breathlessly.  Dimly, I realize that I’m smiling again. 

Her fixating gaze softens.  As if I’d passed some sort of test, she pulls her head back slowly.  Lowly rumbling, she lets her frill falling back against her neck and draws her wings back beneath her, freeing me from her trap. 

I sigh with relief as she moves to turns her yellow eyes to consider my palm. 

I haven’t a single doubt she’d still bite my other arm off if I move wrong. 

Jean is observing me intently in my periphery.  He’s nervously biting at his lip, shifting his weight from side to side.  It does nothing to comfort me. 

“I’m not going to hurt you or your boy, you know,” I murmur for the dragon’s ears only. 

She looks up from my palm as if to confirm what I’d said.  More than before, her eyes hold a threat – _I’d better not be lying_.  I grace that predatory glare with a small smile. 

At last, Eydis blows an affectionate puff of warm air into my palm and brushes the very tip of her nose plate against my middle finger in a small, graceful caress. 

“Thank you,” I whisper.  She seems to smile as she stands back to her full height.  With a playful rumble, she cocks her head much like her rider, and nudges my foot with the tip of her talon.  I grin at her, and she lopes elegantly back to her perch. 

“She’s beautiful,” I breathe, smiling at Jean as he approaches. 

“Yes.”  He smiles kindly after his dragon.  “Eydis is a looker.  She also likes you.  Which is good.  And uncommon.”

I laugh nervously.  “I thought for a moment there that I was dead.”

Jean nods gravely.  “So did I.  But.  You are good with dragons.  More than good.  She sees that.  I’m glad you didn’t die.”

“Me too,” I mumble mildly.  “Definite plus.  Living.  Would recommend.”

He eyes me quizzically, brow furrowed. 

“I’m surprised Orochi didn’t growl or anything,” I muse, tapping my fingers along the soft scales of his neck.  “Maybe he knew Eydis wouldn’t hurt me.  Who knows.”

“You…”  He cocks his head to one side, looking so much like his dragon it makes me giggle.  “Are tired.  You need to sleep.”

“Mmm, that would be nice,” I hum, acknowledging his point with a civil nod of the head.  “Too much excitement.  Too much dragon.”

“Yes.”  Jean smiles wryly.  “Do you need help getting back in bed?” 

“Oh, no,” I say with a sweet smile.  “No need.  Orochi can get me back, safe and sound.”

He furrows his brow, smirking skeptically.  “Are you sure.”

“Not really,” I admit.  “But it’s part of the fun, isn’t it?”  I take a shaky step back towards the living quarters, knocking heavily into Orochi’s steady side.  He grunts, shooting me a sidelong glare. 

“Part of the fun?” Jean echoes. 

“If I make it back to the bed alive, I’ve earned my sleep.”  I wink at him over my shoulder.  “Makes it a bit more challenging, I like to think.”

As I hobble down the icy corridor, I swear I hear him whisper something along the lines of, “Fucking suicidal Vikings…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented last chapter, you're all so sweet!!
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Stormcutter](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Stormcutter)


	6. Raincutter

As children, Armin and Eren slept in the same bed. 

They’d curl up in bed together every night, clutching one another tight to escape the bitter Berk cold.  Armin would bury his cold nose into Eren’s chest and hold him tightly, and he would loop his arms around the blonde boy’s tiny shoulders and try to protect him from the elements.  Sometimes, they’d wake up with Eren strewn spread-eagle across the bed and Armin curled in a little ball against his side.  Most of the time, though, they’d wake up not having moved, arms still locked together. 

It wasn’t uncommon, sleeping together.  In fact, most adults slept together platonically to conserve heat.  Eren knows at least three marriages that happened solely because of the sleeping arrangements. 

When they got older, however, they separated.  Armin moved to a room down the hall of the orphanage and Eren slept alone in their big bed. 

It was scary at first – he didn’t know what to clutch to when a Terrible Terror rattled the shingles or when men talked with gruff voices beneath the windowsill.  He’d wake up in the middle of the nights with freezing toes and no warm body to heat them up against. 

With time, he convinced himself the empty, shadowy room didn’t bother him as much until he had himself fooled. 

There was an odd time when Armin couldn’t sleep because of squealing children or his own anxiety, and he sleepily crawled into Eren’s bed.  Either Armin would be exhausted and Eren would pull him into his arms immediately, stroking his shoulders with one hand until he fell asleep, or they’d clutch one another loosely and talk until the sun came up. 

Even when they moved to different buildings – Armin occupying a bunk in Hanji’s library and Eren in the Chief’s spare room – the habit followed them.  You’d think it’d get less frequent, what with the distance, but the stress of everyday life brought them together more than ever.  There was nothing more calming to Eren than Armin’s presence beside him. 

So when Eren wakes up with Armin’s hair tickling beneath his nose, he isn’t wholly surprised.  He hums sleepily and shifts his weight, blinking down at the blonde head of hair tucked against his chest.  As always, their limbs are interlocked tightly, but Eren doesn’t recall him crawling in at any point last night. 

That doesn’t shock him either.  He sleeps like a rock, and Armin’s probably under a lot of stress right now.  Eren’s hand moves to unconsciously stroke at Armin’s hair as he thinks about the past few tense days in the village. 

As expected, no one had taken to the news of the Screaming Death very well.  Hanji’s attempts to quell their worries with scientific ramblings about their behavior hadn’t done much, either.  Not a soul goes out past dark, and people jump at every loud noise.  The constant fear of attack almost feels worse than attack does. 

Eren’s stomach surges with an intense anger.  Yeah, he wouldn’t mind attacking something.  His fist clenches in Armin’s soft hair. 

Talking to Marco’s mother had been terrible.  He squeezes his eyes shut at just the memory of it.  Watching the heartbreak across her face as he broke the news to her had been unbearable.  She’d clutched at her heart with her knobby fingers and stared deep into the fireplace with glassy eyes.  To make matters worse, as Eren was leaving, Marco’s two siblings tumbled in through the door – she took them both by hand and told them that they needed to talk. 

He’d told her that he wouldn’t stop until he found Marco.  She’d smiled and thanked him, but it didn’t seem like she believed he would. 

“Eren.”  Armin’s slender fingers cover his own, fisted in the blonde boy’s hair. 

Guiltily, Eren drops his fist and pulls his hand away.  “Thor, did I tug on your hair?  I’m so sorry.”

“No, you were gentle,” Armin assures sleepily, blinking up at him with big blue eyes.  “What’s wrong?”

Eren tucks his head against Armin’s, furrowing his brow. 

“Eren?”

“I’m just thinking about Marco.”

Armin’s arms go around Eren’s waist in a gentle embrace, and his stomach flutters treacherously. 

“I know,” Armin sighs softly.  “I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop thinking about him last night, either.”

Eren’s heart squeezes painfully.  He clutches Armin’s little body closer against him, as if to shelter him from the memories of last night – the Chief decided they’d gone too long without a sign from him.  Watching the empty burial ship burn on the black ocean had been emotional for everyone, but it would’ve taken a particular toll on Armin. 

“He’s not dead,” Eren whispers stubbornly into Armin’s ear.  “He can’t be dead.” 

“You can’t deny it’s been a long time,” he says softly back, a quaver in his voice. 

Eren growls in frustration.  “But we haven’t even gone on any searches for him!  He could be sitting on an island somewhere and we’re just sitting here!”

“I like just sitting here with you,” Armin says quietly, “and Hanji has taken parties out to search the area.  If he was around, they’d see him.”

“They’re looking for a killer dragon,” Eren snaps.  “Not Marco.”

Armin is silent for a moment.  “So, if you were allowed to go out there and look for Marco, where would you go?”

“I –”  Eren pauses.  “I’m not sure.  I’d figure it out when I got there.”

He hums softly, shifting his hips.  Eren’s stomach gives another involuntary flutter.  “If you want to convince Erwin to grant you an official search party, you’re going to need a better plan than that.”

Struck with an idea, Eren freezes.  “What if I don’t want an official search party?” Eren says slowly. 

Armin sits up, propping his head up on a hand.  “What?  Eren…”

“No, but think!” Eren enthuses, grinning down at him.  “There’s tons of other people that don’t think Marco’s kicked the bucket!  Ymir and Mikasa!  Probably Sasha and Connie, too!  We’re allowed to fly, right?  We could totally steal away and look for him!”

With an exasperated sigh, Armin groans, “Eren…”

“We could find him, Armin!”  He grins widely, propping himself up beside his best friend.  “We could do it!  Armin, I could bring you Marco back.”

He worries his lip between his teeth cutely.  “I… I don’t know, Eren.  Assuming everyone would be willing to go with you –”

“They will!” Eren says fiercely. 

“– you still don’t have a plan.”  Armin purses his lips.  “You need a plan.”

“Armin –”

“You _need_ a plan,” Armin asserts, his eyes flashing.  “I won’t let you do this if you don’t have a plan.”

Armin holds his gaze in a rare show of defiance, jaw clenched and fingers quivering slightly.  Eren holds it for a moment, his brow slowly furrowing. 

At last, he cocks his head in confusion.  “…But isn’t that your job?”

“What?” Armin asks, his firm façade falling aside. 

Eren smiles down at him.  “You’ve always been the smart guy, haven’t you?  Isn’t coming up with the plans your thing?”

His eyebrows shoot upwards.  “You want me to help you search the seas?”

“Well, yeah, duh.”  Eren grins beatifically.  “C’mon, Armin!  You’re right – I need a plan, and I can’t think of one myself.  I’m not smart like you – I need your brain.”

Armin’s cheeks flush prettily.  “W-well, I suppose I can find time – maybe ask Hanji for some time to grieve –”

With a surge of excitement, Eren loops his arms around Armin’s small body.  He squeezes him tightly, pressing his face into the top of Armin’s hair.  The other boy squawks, but his arms wrap around Eren’s waist in a gentle embrace. 

“You’re amazing,” Eren murmurs into Armin’s soft hair. 

“Well,” Armin breathes shyly against his chest, “if you say so.”

* * *

 

The sweet smell of stew fills the little cave.  Humming sleepily, I turn onto my side and take a deep breath of the sweet aroma.  It smells almost identical to the stew on Berk.  My heart pangs with homesickness, but my stomach growls ferociously. 

Jean’s chuckle is so soft I almost don’t catch it. 

“Sorry,” I mumble, ears heating.  I peek my eyes open, squinting them to block the offending brightness of the ice. 

“No.  You’re hungry.”  He chuckles.  “Very hungry.  Good.”

“Mmmm,” I articulate, burying my face into his pillow.  “’S too damn light.”

Indifferent, he says, “I’ve gotten used to it.  But yes.  It was a bitch once.”

With a soft groan, I shove my face back into the pillow, turning onto my stomach.  The blankets are wrapped around my legs, my bare torso long since exposed to the frigid nip of the icy hollow – it’s a surprise I hadn’t woken sooner.  I stretch out my toes so they poke out from beneath the blanket, wiggling them in the cold air. 

Nuzzling against the fuzzy pillow, I ease my eyes open in the shadow there.  It’s warm and smells pleasantly of herbs. 

In the corner of my eye, Jean watches me expressionlessly, his unblinking gaze flitting along the arch of my spine.  Is he staring at my bandages?  I can’t tell.  Self-consciously, I flip onto my side, interrupting his little trance. 

“How long’ve I been out?” I murmur, smiling at him. 

Jean shrugs, looking into the belly of the cauldron he’s stirring.  “Not long.  A few hours.  Your dragon’s out hunting.”

“Is he?”  I stretch my arm over my head with a guttural groan, keenly aware of how Jean’s gaze swings back to me as I do so. 

“Mmm.”  He stares back into the stew, stirring slowly.  “He will be back soon.  Never leaves you for long.”

“He’s a mother hen like that,” I chuckle affectionately.  “Just you wait until I’m fully operational again.  As soon as he knows I’m fine, he’ll be a complete bastard.”

Jean’s lips quirk.  “Sounds like a character.”

“He is.”  I heave myself up in bed with massive effort, rubbing at my eyes with the heel of my hand.  I peek at him, and, again, he’s watching me impassively. 

Something dawns on me.  I jerk upright.  “Oh, gods, I’m sorry, this is your bed, isn’t it?”

Jean nods wordlessly.  A stab of guilt shoots through my gut. 

“How long’ve I kept you from your bed?” I gasp, throwing my blankets off.  “And I’ve just been lounging here – I should’ve realized, I’m so sorry! I’ve been a terrible guest, it’s all yours, I’ll sleep –”

“You’re staying in my bed, idiot,” Jean scoffs, raising an eyebrow.  “You’re still sick.”

I freeze.  “O-oh?”

“You’re still sick,” he repeats, rolling his eyes.  “You get the bed.  Not now, though.  Get out and come over here.  Stew’s ready.” 

To prove his point, he ladles out a massive spoonful of the soup and pours it into a wooden bowl.  The smell of it becomes all the more mouth-watering.  My stomach betrays my hunger with a ferocious growl. 

“Eat,” Jean commands, glaring fiercely at me, holding the bowl out. 

It’s a strange change from yesterday.  I’d seen him a whole of twice, maybe, and the day before that only once.  Both times, he’d been anxiously quiet, and I hadn’t pressed conversation.  Now, it looks like he’s extending an olive branch. 

After a second more of hesitation, I grab the biggest, fluffiest blanket and throw it over my shoulders.  The cozy fabric is heavenly against my cool back, along my arms, my stomach – humming, I snuggle up into it happily, wrapping myself so that only my eyes and hand peek out from the blanket’s warm folds. 

Jean’s gaze follows me carefully as I waddle over.  He tenses as I stub my toes against the floor, causing me to trip over my own feet.  I steady myself with an awkward half-step or two, laughing my clumsiness off, and although he doesn’t comment, he relaxes. 

It occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve walked by myself.  Suddenly, I’m much more grateful for his watchful eye. 

I pick my way through the lumpy pillows scattered around the fire.  It’s a little difficult because I can hardly see my feet inside the blanket, but I manage nonetheless.  Staggering gracelessly onto my ass beside Jean, I release an _oof_ and turn to him expectantly. 

He’s holding the stew away now, lips pursed stubbornly.  “Let me see your face,” he says, tone erring on the side of condescending. 

“But my nose’ll get cold,” I whine, voice muffled by the blanket. 

Ignoring me entirely, he samples the soup and smacks his lips together, expression one of thought.  After another sip, he reaches over to a flat stone beside the kettle where multiple grounded powders sit in little bowls. 

“What are those?” I ask as he sprinkles them over the soup, letting the blanket slip slightly off my head. 

“Spices and herbs,” he murmurs distractedly.  “Some to help you feel better.  Others to make it taste better.”

I take a deep whiff of the enticing soup.  It smells absolutely delicious.  Excitedly, I shuffle closer to Jean until our knees our touching.  He glances at me questioningly, scowling, and I hum hungrily.  Smiling at him widely, I pay no heed to the fact that he can only see my eyes. 

His scowl softens.  “You still have to show me your face to eat,” he says, turning away to hide his smile. 

“Well, if you _insist_.” 

His head whips around, his lips twisted in a pleased smirk.  I throw my head back with a hearty laugh – it’s the most expression I’ve seen from him, and he looks so damn smug.  He scowls at me, but it’s halfhearted. 

I throw my head back and wriggle it out of the blanket.  The cool air is a fresh shock against my warm lips, my warm nose.  Holding my neck stiff, I glance down at him over the folds of the fabric, hoping to see that cocky smile again.

I get something better than that. 

His smile is wide – a little faltering, a little nervous, but wide – and his expression is earnestly, candidly _happy_ ; hell, if it’s not the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. 

My shoulders shake with a loud, happy laugh that echoes around the cave. 

It feels so good to laugh that loud, to even have something to laugh about – I launch into another peal of joyful laughter.  Jean tries to pull a pouty face, but the smile reappears on his lips after my third burst of giggles.  He watches me in amusement as I duck my head against my chest, chuckling to myself. 

When the chuckles reluctantly die down, I look sideways into his mildly confused eyes, and I have another fit of giggles again.  For some reason, I’m absurdly happy.  I tell him this between laughter. 

“You are…”  Jean raises an eyebrow, smiling wryly.  “Strange.  Also, I think you are _very_ sick.  Maybe it’s the cold.”

“Hmmm, could be,” I hum, humoring him more than anything.

He nods as if his suspicions are being confirmed.  “The cold is killing your common sense.  I will make you clothing to keep you warm.”

“Make me clothing?”  Sobering quickly, I blink curiously his direction.  “Do you sew?”

“Mmmm.”  He nods sagely.  “The sea traders fucking suck at clothes.  I make everything better.  Even this.”

He sweeps his hands over his current garb.  For the first time, I notice the change in apparel which should’ve been quite glaring – leather armor, a furry hood, and heavy boots with soft soles.  The boots peek out from beneath a rugged animal pelt cinched at the waist by a vibrant red cloth, the tail of which hangs down over one leg like a torn banner. 

“Oh!”  My eyebrows arch upwards in surprise.  “That’s – _really_ good.  You really are better than the textile merchants.”

He smirks and rolls his eyes.  “Doesn’t take much to be better than them.”

I don’t agree, but I don’t dare say so.  “Still, it’s amazing.  Better than I could ever hope to do, even with two arms.  Your leatherworking, too – good job.”

“Mmm.”  He taps his long fingers along the overlapping strips of thick leather on his chest, leaving me to appreciate how well it fits him.  They really do give his slender figure a sleek, streamlined effect…

“I made my flying armor, too,” he says, somewhat shyly.  I snap my head up, struck with the realization that I’d been ogling. 

“It’s beautiful – you’re very talented,” I compliment, somewhat guiltily. 

“Thank you,” he says.  The quirk of his lips calms my guilt.   

I pause and offer him a more sincere smile, before asking, “Say, why do you have two pairs of armor?  The materials of this armor” – I wave my hand over his chest, pretending not to notice his blush as I do so – “would be sufficient to block most blows.”

“The other is thicker and more complete than this,” Jean explains, gesturing with a sweeping hand towards his vulnerable legs.  “But this is warmer.”

“Still,” I persist, “Why use time constructing such an… ornate, showy thing?  To be frank, I think it’s a bit of a scary thing to wear.”

“Well.  That’s the point.”  He shrugs.  “I scare people.  It’s made to be frightening.  Simple people don’t want to meddle with my affairs – they think I’m some sort of god.”

I’m completely certain that it’s very effective on locals.  Vikings are brave, yes, but superstitious to the point of stupidity – one time, Connie got struck by a bolt of lightning while flying.  The entire village avoided him like the plague.  The bakers closed their door, Ymir found excuses to vanish conveniently, he got kicked out of the tavern.  I don’t think he ate all that week. 

“That’s a great idea, Jean.” 

He smiles, smug and bashful in equal measures.  “Thank you.  It’s great.  One of my best.  It camouflages too.”

“Oh?”  In my mind’s eye, I see the turmoil of dragon on top of dragon in the cavern – in the chaos of all that, no one would be able to make out the rack of horns from any other.  His blue armor would melt into the jumble of colors. 

“That’s why I never saw you at the cavern, right?” I ask. 

He nods. 

 “That’s… really smart,” I say, a bit in awe.  “How long have you been on your own?”

“Ah…”  He frowns, shrugging.  “A dozen years?  Maybe more?  A long time.”

“That’s amazing.”  I smile widely.  “You’ve just been scaring people away as a dragon deity?  You’re amazing.”

“Hmm.”  His cheeks dust pink, but his smile is pleased.  “I try.  But it’s not like there’s many people to scare.  Not many people at all.”

“Oh?”

“I… don’t get out much,” he laughs nervously, seeming abruptly uncomfortable.  “I just go to a trading post for necessities.  Cloth and food.”

“Hmmmm.”  With one thumb, I stroke the inside of my blanket absentmindedly.  “Just the dragons, then?”

“They’re my only companions,” he says awkwardly, ducking his head against his chest. 

“So… you know them all?” I press, cocking my head.  “Not intimately, but… you know the dragons well enough to know which ones are new?”

He lifts his head back up curiously and nods stiffly. 

“This might be a little out of nowhere, but – the dragon I was riding on during my escape?  Not Orochi, the other one.  Do you remember it?”

There’s a stir of hesitance in his gaze.  “The Boneknapper?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”  I punctuate my words with a thoughtful nod.  “Have you perchance seen him around?  I can probably credit my escape to him.”

Jean grunts petulantly. 

“And you, too,” I correct, chuckling. 

He hums with approval, but his expression crumbles.  “I haven’t seen him,” Jean says quietly, eyes downcast. 

“I see.”  A sad smile spreads over my face.  “He didn’t have the best of times there – I don’t think any dragons did.  I would like to believe he’d made it here.”

He shrugs.  “Some dragons came here.  Some did not.  He might not have.  Might’ve gone home.”

“Let’s hope,” I agree.  Our gazes meet, and he smiles back at me with – sorrow?  Mourning?  Pity?  I can’t tell.  After so long in solitude, alone from everyone but one distant tradesman, his emotions are stilted and awkward.  It’s evident in the lackluster ways he strings words together, and it’s evident here, in his expression, as he hesitates to school his features to look comforting. 

His eyes widen suddenly.  With a distraught gasp, he twists around and grabs the wooden bowl of stew I’d all but forgotten.  I make a small noise of distress.  He stirs it halfheartedly, long face twisted in a pout. 

“It’s cold,” he grouches. 

“We’ll make do,” I hum, amused by his sudden bout of grumpiness.  And really, it is fine – all I’ve been eating is bread and butter and cold fish.  While it would’ve been better warm, lukewarm stew is still practically a gourmet meal for my poor deprived stomach. 

“It won’t taste as good,” he warns, handing it carefully towards me. 

“That’s okay,” I assure.  With a twinge of annoyance, I notice his hesitation in handing the bowl to me, his blatant glance towards my missing arm.  My stomach knots unpleasantly.  For the first time in Jean’s presence, I have the irrational urge to hide the scarred stump of an arm from him. 

He hands it over to me gingerly, watching me like a hawk.  When I move it to the side opposite him, his hands dart halfway out in an aborted mission.  Yanking them back, he runs his fingers stressfully through his hair. 

I feel my lips curling into an ugly fake smile.  Turning slowly and bringing our eyes level, I say softly, “I can feed myself.”

Jean’s eyes widen.  I fancy myself as looking frightening, cold in the eyes, mouth a thin, dangerous smile, an expression that could be utter fury or disappointment or disgust – an expression I’d learned from watching Erwin. 

He leans backwards and makes an exaggerated attempt to give me space.  The look of dejection just fortifies the steely anger clenched in my stomach.  When he glances at me hesitantly, I make a point not to look back. 

He doesn’t say anything.  That is both a blessing and a curse.  The prolonged silence hangs like a heavy mantle between us.  Everything is cold and distant when compared to the warm camaraderie shared not even a minute ago. 

And it hurts, just a little bit, his rude awakening – the feelings of shame and disgust and hate that come with this damned arm, or lack thereof.  I should’ve known his disregard of it wouldn’t be permanent. 

But this quiet simply won’t do.  To let my insecurity push him away is immature of me. 

“I’m sorry.”  I glance at him apologetically, but he refuses to meet my gaze.  “…That’s… a weak spot of mine, but still.  I’m used to it.”

Jean shrugs uncomfortably.  “Don’t apologize.  Eat your soup.”

With a heavy sigh, I gather my bruised feelings and resolve to eat his cold stew.  Jean flinches at the scrape of my wooden spoon against the bottom of the bowl, blinking owlishly. 

“It still smells delicious,” I murmur in an attempt to make peace.  I glance sideways at him, gauging his reaction.  “Cold soup is a delicacy compared to cold fish.”

He cracks a hesitant, guarded smile, an underlying caution in his gaze. 

“Thank you, seriously,” I say earnestly, forcing another smile.  “You’re too kind.”

“Don’t thank me before you try it,” he mumbles, so softly I almost don’t hear it.  I can see him eyeing me suspiciously in the corner of his eye, and I’d have to be blind to miss the way he scoots away from me. 

A tiring mixture of weariness and unhappiness heavying my heart, I spoon the stew into my mouth, my thoughts far from the action at hand.  I am thinking of unhappy days to be spent in this little cave, of Orochi’s wings cramping from lack of exercise, of pity, and of madmen when the flavor explodes across my tongue, so of course it takes me a moment to recognize the delectability of it. 

The familiar taste jars me abruptly from my thoughts.  It has a delicious, homey flavor, the spice flavoring the fish and potatoes that puts sparks memories of warmth and family. 

With a muffled cry of surprise, I shovel another spoonful into my mouth.  My heart swells with such a mixture of homesickness and nostalgia that I almost shed a tear. 

“Do you like it?” Jean murmurs tentatively.  “It’s a special recipe.”

I swallow down the soup and turn to him with wide eyes.  “I know,” I say, giddily and gravely simultaneously. 

Jean’s eyes blow as wide as saucers.  “You know?”

“This is…”  I stare down at the soup, my heart contracting painfully.  “This is Berk’s special cod and potato soup, isn’t it?”  I look up at him, scrutinizing every flicker of his expression.  “How do you know my island’s secret recipe?”

His jaw drops.  He gapes dumbly at me for many long, answerless seconds.  My heart flutters and my stomach clenches as I wait impatiently for a response. 

“You are from Berk?” he says weakly at last. 

“Yeah,” I laugh, running a hand through my hair.  I gaze into the flickering coals in the fire, grinning to myself. 

“Why… why didn’t you say?” he asks quietly, scooting closer to me.  A slow grin is breaking out over his face.  “We are brothers.  Why didn’t you say?”

“You’re from Berk, too?” I gasp, meeting his gaze and turning towards him, the nostalgic soup all but forgotten. 

“Yes!”  He nods so violently his head could go flying off his shoulders.  “I left many years ago – how many now?  Eleven?  Twelve?  Thirteen, maybe.  Probably.”

I bite at my lip, studying him up and down.  “I don’t remember seeing you around the village –”  Something dawns on me.  I yelp, sitting up straight. 

“Jean Kirschtein!” I cry, beckoning widely to him.  “You vanished!  I remember now!”

“Yes!”  He grins widely, baring teeth.  “Yes, I left.  Do they tell stories about me?”

“No, but everyone talked about how lucky I was to not have died when I lost this damn thing.”  I jerk a thumb to my arm.  “They talked about how lucky I was not to be like you.”

His eyes flash with uncertainty.  “What do you mean?”

“Well –”  I shrug.  “You vanished.  Nobody ever told me how, but they apparently all thought I was gone for good, like you, but not really.”

“I see.”  He is quiet for another second – I burn with questions on the tip of my tongue.  I want to know why he’s here, why he’s never come back, but then his face breaks with another smile.  “So, tell me – does the Dragon Academy still lose the Terror daily?”

“No, actually, we fixed the door.”  I grin so widely that my cheeks hurt.  “It took a while, but, eventually, Woerman just ripped the damn thing out and replaced it.”

“Sounds like him.”  Jean’s eyes sparkle like gold.

Excitedly, I lean forward.  “Also, the Terror found a home too – you know Armin?”

His eyebrows arch upwards.  “Shrimp, weird-ass haircut?”

“That’s the one!”  I smile impossibly wider.  “He fell in love with the little devil.”

“Really?” Jean says, his jaw dropping.  “Knock-kneed wimp can handle that nippy little bastard?”

“Oh, yes,” I say.  “I’ve never liked the damn thing, but it and Armin are close as can be.  In all that I’ve known them, I’ve never seen that dragon do anything than nibble him.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Jean harrumphs, but he’s smiling still.  After a moment of silence, he deadpans, “Tell me Armin got rid of that stupid-ass haircut.”

I giggle softly.  “Nope.  Never.”

A look of devastated disbelief flashes over Jean’s expression.  I giggle louder, tempted to point out his own stupid-ass haircut.  But then, I rather like it.  It’s a bit endearing. 

“Stupid-ass wimp and his stupid-ass hair,” Jeans says, disgruntled by my giggling.  The tips of his ears are red, lips curled somewhere between a smile and a scowl. 

“Well, now, I was a wimp with stupid hair once upon a time too,” I say sympathetically.  “Hell, some would say I still am.”

“I wouldn’t,” says Jean sharply.  I glance at him sideways, and he flushes.  After a moment, he elaborates, “You nearly died.  Trying to get home.  That’s brave.  …And I like your hair.”

“Thank you.”  I smile pleasantly.  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Armin’s hair is stupid.  You remember Chief Dok of the Sina Military tribe, right?”

He snorts a chuckle.  “Do I ever.  He makes anyone look good.”

I laugh more at Jean than at Dok.  “His hair never got any better, either,” I say cheerfully, nudging him with my shoulder. 

“Yeah, sounds like.”  Glancing nervously towards his fingers, Jean bumps his knee shyly against mine.  “Is, ah…  Is old Kitts still terrifying anything with ears at the Academy?”

I laugh, but a shiver of fear goes down my spine at the mention of my fearsome predecessor.  “No, no, Kitts lost a valiant fight to his own Gronckle years ago.  Died a warrior’s death.  I think everybody’s glad to have him gone.”

“Really?”  Jean lifts an eyebrow.  “Who runs the Academy then?  The crazy one?”

“Who, Hanji?”  I stifle a chuckle.  “No, they’d burn the entire thing to the ground in a week flat.”

Jean grunts.  “Didn’t think so.  Who, then?”

“Actually, ah…”  I rub nervously at the back of my neck.  “ _I_ do.  I’m the new teacher at the Academy.”

He says nothing.  Frightened to death of how he could react, I look everywhere but his face.  As the silence builds, my nerves wind like a tight coil in the pit of my stomach. 

“I’ve got a few pupils back at home,” I add, feeling breathless.  “They’re doing amazing with their dragons.  Or they were – it’s been a while, I hope they’ve been keeping up with their training, or maybe not, dragons are dangerous and they shouldn’t be going in without a supervisor.” 

My heart squeezes painfully. 

“I hope they’re doing okay.  I hope Mina is doing okay.  She’s not finding a match, y’know, because we can only have so many dragons there, and none of them fit her.  She was feeling really down about it when I saw her last, and I think I made her feel better, but if she doesn’t find a dragon soon, I don’t know if it’ll keep up.  Before I left, I was thinking, maybe I could take her on a field trip to other islands in the area to try our techniques on wild dragons but, well.  This happened.  I hope she’s okay.  I worry about her.”

I take a deep breath.  A knot in my chest is slowly unwinding the longer I talk, and it’s relieving. 

“Of course, there’s Thomas, but he was bonding really well with a Hobblegrunt.  I hope he can maintain that – oh, Odin, I don’t want him to hurt himself though.  And then I have a weekly class – to help reestablish bonds between dragons and people that’ve gotten sick of each other – how many weeks have I missed?  Gods, I don’t even know.  Pixis has probably booted Melanie out onto the street…  I hope everyone’s okay…  I mean… I know they are… but…”

My shoulders hunch.  I curl into a nervous ball, my heart aching with homesickness. 

In that moment, I want nothing more to be home.  I want to be in my cold, damp bed, I want to cling to Orochi’s warmth through slimy sheets, I want to wake up to my siblings scampering around and pouring fireworms on my feet.  I want to kiss my mother’s cheek and laugh with Ymir and nestle beside Armin and a good book.  I want to smell Berk’s strange, swampy, not-exactly-pleasant musk on the breeze and feel the biting wind in my face. 

A gentle hand lands on my shoulder.  I flinch back to reality and look up at Jean – he smiles uncertainly. 

“You sound like a much better teacher than Kitts,” he says, nervous sincerity in his eyes.  “They will be fine.”

He slaps the palm of his hand soundly against my shoulder, almost as if he’s trying to comfort me in a masculine way.  Instead of a playful cuff, he more or less shoves the heel of his hand into my shoulderblade.  I shouldn’t find it as sweet as I do.

I lean into his touch.  “Thank you, Jean…  I needed to get that off my chest, I think.”

He hums and rubs his thumb against my back for a moment more.  I grunt grumpily when he drops his hand by his side, and he pretends not to notice.  Or maybe he doesn’t notice.  I can’t tell.

A silence ensues, but it’s not an unkind silence.  My thoughts are of home and lighter than before; they’re pleasant memories and projections of my future.  Jean is silent, caught perhaps in a similar swirl of thoughts.  The firelight shines in his eyes that see anywhere but here. 

“…Is old Shadis still Chief?”

A burst of laughter explodes from me.  “No, no, definitely not.”

“Who, then?”  He sits forward eagerly. 

“Well, you remember Erwin, don’t you?”  I lean back, smiling fondly towards the ceiling with memories of him.  “Tall man, handsome face?”

“Eyes that make you feel like a pawn on his chessboard?” Jean pipes up.  I nod.  His eyebrows shoot up, mouth dropping open slightly. 

I tilt my head to one side.  “What’s that look for?”

“Isn’t he… gay?” Jean says quietly.  “How is he Chief?”

He stares into the depth of the embers as he awaits my answer, fiddling his fingers with the edge of his red ribbon, but I get the sense he’s seeing something very different than the fire.  Instinctively, I place my hand heavily on his shoulder.   He startles out of his reverie and looks me in the eyes. 

“Berk’s changed a lot in the time you’ve been gone,” I say softly.  “People have changed.  It’s a better place.”

His eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Of course,” I chuckle, “the other tribes hate us for it.  But I think it’s for the better.”

He hums softly, glancing down at his hands in his lap. 

My hand slipping from his shoulder, I continue, “Erwin’s very, very gay.  He’s happily married to Levi, his second in command.  On top of all that, he’s a cripple like me.” 

I smile fondly at the memories, absently watching Jean’s long fingers fiddle together. 

“A cripple?” Jean asks. 

“He’s missing an arm, too,” I explain.  “He helped me adjust once I got back to Berk without this thing.”  I gesture loosely towards my missing arm. 

“So, yeah.  Crippled, gay chief.”  More to myself than anything, I laugh, “Kind of my role model, if I’m being honest.”

Jean looks at me sideways.  His expressions are always the most bizarre thing – I can see his gears turning, but I never know what he’s thinking about.  I never know what to expect him to say next. 

“That’s stupid,” he murmurs dismissively.  “Your eyes are too kind to be like Erwin’s.  Don’t be like him.”

His words hit me like a slap to the face.  Burning with shame, I laugh awkwardly in an attempt to hide the painful squeeze in my heart.  I look into his eyes, and, though every fiber in my being is telling me to hide like a scorned child, I smile. 

“O-oh,” I say, staggered.  My cheeks feel hot.  “Yeah, you’re… probably right.  I’m not much like him, am I?”

He frowns and cocks his head.  “No.”

“Right.”  I stare down into my bowl.  “Thanks.”

Hunching my shoulders, I gulp down my cold stew in a few swallows.  The flavor brings again a flood of memories from home, colorful and bittersweet, and the meat sates my hunger.  At the bottom of the bowl, all the spices had collected while we’d spoken – I scrape them out and lick my spoon clean, seeking out the familiar flavor.  It’s also an excuse to look anywhere but Jean. 

At last, the bowl is empty.  I set it down gently beside the fire, avoiding Jean’s gaze as I do so. 

“I think I’m going to go back to sleep, if that’s alright,” I say quietly, mustering a fake smile. 

“Yes.”  Jean nods distractedly several times.  “Sleep.  Good.  Go.”

“Alright.”  Wearily, I wrap the blanket tighter around me and rise from the pillows.  I swing my leg up high to step gently over his cushions, waddling carefully away. 

Before I can escape entirely, Jean tugs on the bottom of my blanket.  I stagger around and meet his gaze. 

“I promise, _Marco_ ” – his voice becomes gentler on my name, and he hesitates for half a second before continuing – “you will go home.  I will take you home.”

My throat constricts and my cheeks feel warm.  Turning my face away to hide my blush, I watch him in the corner of my eye and whisper softly, “Thank you, Jean.” 

Jean forces an unnervingly broad smile back at me.  The fire casts his face in shades of orange, gleaming off his bared teeth and his squinted eyes.  He looks so damn _uncomfortable_ ; I giggle shamelessly at the sight of it. 

His lips twist into a sulky pout.  “Meanie,” he grumbles. 

“You need to learn to smile,” I say in response, chuckling.  The lightness in my tone is a cracking façade – perhaps a hint of my weariness shines through in my tone, because his face falls instantly. 

Concern glints in his eyes again.  “You need to sleep,” he says, just as lightly.  “I will get you home.  First you need sleep.”

“Yes.”  I turn away from him, casting a half-hearted smile over my shoulder.  “Goodnight, Jean.”

“Marco.”  I glance over my shoulder to see him smiling a real smile, if a bit worried.  “Sleep well.”

My throat is dry, so I only nod and waddle off.  I don’t turn back until I’ve gracelessly collapsed into the bed. 

It takes a few moments for the emotions to kick in, but, when they do, they hit my like a punch to the gut. 

I shrivel in on myself, a small kernel of repressed humiliation threatening to burst.  A hot wetness wells at the corner of my eyes, making them feel itchy and raw.  The enormous stress of these past few days crashes down on me like a ton of bricks.  Only the mortifying possibility of being discovered by Jean keeps me composed enough to stay silent. 

Jean, likely still crouched by the fire.  Jean, likely to only make it worse in an attempt to help.  Jean, who I don’t want to see me like this.  Slowly, I force myself to relax. 

The blankets and sheets are soft, but they’re cold now, and stiffer than I remembered.  I curl my legs against my chest, seeking my own heat, and wrap the warm blanket back around me.  It’s cozier like this, all curled up in a ball.  I sigh happily, and puff of steam rises from my breath, twisting and coiling in front of my face before disperses. 

Fascinated, I breathe out slowly and watch as the steam disappears.  The pressure in my chest lessens.  In Berk, we rarely are warm enough to _not_ see our breath.  Home always follows me some way or another. 

I breathe out once more and nestle into the warm bed.  A feeling of calm fatigue washes over me. 

The fur of the animal pelt tickles my nose.  I sneeze.  It sounds strangely soft to my own ears, soft and high pitched – I break out in a fit of giggles.  The lump in my throat vanishes with laughter. 

It’s not like I have any right to be sulking, either, I reflect, nestling into Jean’s bed.  He’s socially awkward and very blunt on top of that.  Of course he’d say the first thing that came to his mind.  There was absolutely no reason for me to overreact the way I did. 

I cringe and groan softly, curling tighter on myself. 

He’s very right about it, too – I am nothing like Erwin.  There isn’t a scrap of similarity between the two of us, the longer I think on it.  Jean must’ve seen it immediately.  He must think me a fool. 

Of course, I don’t even know why I care what this hermit thinks.  Why the hell is Jean here in the first place?  Why did he never return, not even once?  Didn’t he want to come home?  It isn’t like we haven’t got the dragons, though of course he has more. 

When I think of Berk – of all the things I miss, of all the things I wish I could do again, all the people I want to talk to just one more time – it’s impossible to imagine someone not wanting to return.  I can’t help but face Jean’s choice with an air of incredulity. 

I sneakily cast a glance over my shoulder.  In the few minutes I’ve been curled into a ball, Jean seems to have slunk off.  Pondering this, I turn back onto my side, glaring at the ice as if I could possibly glean the answers there.  

I’d like to believe it was my own shy tendencies as a child that lead to us never meeting in the village.  It’s a very real possibility.  However, something tells me Jean ran in the same social circles as Eren and Armin, a group I wanted very little to do with as a boy. 

You had to be some level of fucked up to hang around them.  I’m not sure what that says about Jean, but it’s certainly none of my business. 

Or maybe it is.  I’m trapped with him here, essentially. 

And with all speculation aside, I decide I like Jean.  He’s got his fair share of faults, but they’re rather endearing.  His awkwardness could prove charming and his lack of social niceties perhaps might improve with time.  It’s far from terrible.

Besides, beneath that thick outer casing, there’s softness.  I’m sure of it.  It’s simply a matter of bearing the outer layer long enough to see it.

* * *

 

 

“Y’know, Reiner,” Bertl says, scratching nervously along the bridge of his nose, “I think you’re right – about the thing that’s followin’ us.”

Reiner grumbles, yanking on the fishing line futilely.  “Of course I’m right.  We’re sitting ducks.  Fish in a barrel.  Wouldn’t surprise me if we’ve got half the ocean on our tails.”

His comrade is silent for a moment.  The ocean laps tamely at the sides of the ice, its waves the only sound aside from the howl of the wind.  Glumly, Reiner tugs at his fishing line again, awaiting Bertl’s response. 

“…You don’t really think that, do you?” he asks frightenedly.  “We can’t fend off anything bigger than gulls…”

“We can’t if we don’t get some damn food,” Reiner grouses.  “At this rate, all the predators will find are skin and bones.”

The blood drains from his companion’s face.  “It’s really that bad?”

“Yeah.  Maybe.”  He bumps his shoulder against Bertl’s.  “But don’t worry.  We’ve been through worse, and you know it.”

Bertl nods.  He rests his temple against Reiner’s collarbone, curling up next to him like a kitten.  “I do know it.  We can get through this.”

“Damn right we can.”  He presses a chaste kiss to the top of Bertl’s head.  “We’ll be okay.  You just wait and see.  You and I, we’ll get away from this fucking hellscape and take a nice, long vacation.  How’s that sound, eh?”

He hums happily, nuzzling against Reiner’s shoulder.  Bertl’s hands wind around his waist.  His embrace is a welcome warmth. 

“I’m thinking somewhere south, eh?” Reiner murmurs into Bertl’s hair.  “Maybe somewhere where you don’t gotta thaw out every time you walk outdoors.  I’m not real picky other than that – you could take us to a swamp filled with all sorts of damn bugs and it’d still be better than these damn Nordic areas.”

“I’ve always liked beaches,” Bertl muses. 

“Then we’ll go to a beach.”  He wraps an arm around Bertl’s waist and squeezes.  “A warm beach, with clear water and nice sand and all of that beachy shit.  I promise it.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he chuckles. 

“Of course.  I think I’m just about done working for our employers, anyway.”

Bertl falls silent for a beat.  The tips of his tousled hair flutter with a gust of cold wind, and a small shiver runs through him.  Tucking his head against Reiner, he murmurs in a soft, frightened voice, “I can’t believe Annie left us.”

Reiner’s arm tightens around him.  “We’ll be okay.  She knows that.  She’ll come back.  Our focus right now should be catching some damn fish to survive until then.”

“But what if she doesn’t come back?” Bertl whispers. 

“She will,” he says stubbornly. 

“Reiner, I want to believe, but –”

The iceberg suddenly pitches in the water.  Spray spits up from the ocean and into their faces.  Both of them scramble for purchase against the slippery melting ice, their hands sinking into slick crevices in its sides.  Reiner’s heart hammers in his ears as he flattens himself against its walls.  His arms quiver uncontrollably, betraying his malnutrition. 

“Are you okay?” Bertl whispers, sounding terrified.  Reiner glances across the iceberg at him – he shivers even more violently, face covered in a sheen of sweat. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m –”

A low, rumbling growl breaks through the silence of the ocean.  Reiner’s heart stops in his chest.  There is then a most horrible sound, a tapping, a clinking, a slicing, the sound of talons clacking on the surface of the ice – too close, much too close.  The low, low growl, growing more and more thundering with every passing second, growing more and more close with every stuttered heartbeat in his chest. 

“Reiner?” Bertl croaks, trembling like a leaf caught in a gale. 

“Don’t look up,” Reiner whispers, mustering a thin smile. 

He freezes as the growl swells into a snarl and hot breath pours over him.  A bead of saliva, tracing hot down his temple.  Bertl’s eyes widen with terror, shrinking back at the horror of whatever he sees hovering above Reiner.  Its rancid breath pours over him like the steam of a stove. 

“R-Reiner,” Bertl stutters, brokenly petrified. 

Swallowing, Reiner looks up and directly into the eyes of the Boneknapper. 

* * *

 

Another pained shriek rips from the Raincutter’s maw.  Its hindlegs smash powerfully against my chest.  The wind knocks from my lungs with a strangled gasp.  Struggling for breath, I heave my weight onto its foot, pinning it to the ground. 

The Raincutter wails pathetically, tail thrashing.  Its wings beat fruitlessly at the air.  Growling, I keep it anchored to the ground and on its side. 

“It’s for your own good,” I snarl through a hoarse, choked throat.  Orochi snorts in amusement, watching from the rocks against the wall. 

Groaning again, the Raincutter collapses melodramatically against the ground.  Every muscle in its body goes slack.  Its toes unclench and it meekly whines in pain, staring at me from the corner of its eye. 

“Good.”  Sighing, I cradle its foot on my lap again.  “Let’s try this again, how about?”

“Marco?”

I nearly jump out of my skin.  Flinching backwards, I whirl around to the voice.  As if he’d appeared by magic, Jean Kirschtein crouches a foot or two behind me.  His eyes glint with curiosity. 

“Odin, Jean!” I cry.  “You can’t just sneak up on people!  I was looking for you, earlier.”

“What are you doing?” he demands, cocking his head oddly.  “Why are you hurting it?”

“Straight to business, I see.”  I readjust the Raincutter’s foot in my lap so that he can see the streaks of blood trickling down it.  “As clichéd as it sounds, it’s got a thorn in its paw.  And it’s not real pleased about it being removed.”

The Raincutter releases another pitiful wail as if to prove my point. 

“Oh.”  Jean frowns.  “That doesn’t happen a lot here.”

“Happens all the time on Berk,” I hum, roving my hand further up the shaking Raincutter’s leg in a gesture of comfort.  “I do this every other day with the Academy dragons.  Usually, though, I have assistants.”

He cocks his head, blinking slowly.  “Do you need help?”

“If you’re doing something, go ahead and finish it,” I say humbly.  “I’ve got this.  One arm doesn’t slow me down that much.”

“One arm doesn’t slow you down at all,” Jean mumbles darkly. 

“Oi, stop that.  I’m not sick.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m not –”

“Yes.”

I throw my head back in a laugh.  “Alright, if you insist.  If you’re dead set on staying, could you keep the Raincutter calm for me?  Stroke its face and reassure it.”

“Of course.”  He moves nimbly beside the dragon, maneuvering its head into his lap. 

“The naval cavities are massive on Raincutters – they like them being massaged.”

“Yes, I’ve got it.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, hunching to examine the thorn in its paw.  In the corner of my eye, I catch him smiling. 

The dragon’s heavy breathing calms slowly.  The thorn is buried in the pads of the paw, the flesh around it raw, shiny, and red.  Around the edges of the thorn, the scabs crust and chip. 

I gently grip the edges of the thorn between my thumb and index finger, waiting for the dragon to quit its squirming.  In the corner of my eye, I notice Jean watching me with a deadly focus.  But the dragon head drops into his lap, eyes shuttering close, so I don’t allow it distract me. 

Without warning, I rip the thorn from the creature’s paw. 

Bellowing in agony, the Raincutter thrashes its head back into Jean’s chest.  With an _oof,_ he summersaults backwards and out of its path.  Freed, the Raincutter swings it head around to meet my gaze.  Its eyes narrow. 

A swift kick to my midriff sends me flying backwards.  My shoulder slams against a rock and pain shoots through my body.  The breath whooshes from my lungs.  A rasping cough thunders from my chest.  Distantly, Jean cries my name. 

Involuntary tears springing in the corner of my eyes, I sit upright, shaking my head to clear it.  The buzz fades away.  I squint up in time to see the Raincutter snarl and throw itself off the edge.  Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t spare a second glance. 

“You’re welcome,” I chuckle, voice a little scratchy.  Shaking a leaf from my hair, I jump to my feet.  A bolt of pain travels down my spine, but it’s nothing unbearable.  It could’ve dealt much worse.  I stretch my arm over my head – the bandages tickle my ribs as I do.  I probe at them with a single finger.  _Fucking things._

Ambling back into the clearing, I glance up into Jean’s gaze – _he still hasn’t looked away._

“Are you hurt?” he asks, creeping up.  His hands flit out, pause midair, and tuck back by his side. 

“From that?”  I roll my shoulders, grinning down at him broadly.  “I’ve lived on Berk my whole life, Jean.  I’d have died years ago.”

Jean scowls with a playful twinkle in his eyes.  “By Berk’s standards, you’re a shrimp,” he harrumphs, crossing his arms over his chest.  

“What does that make you, I wonder?”

“I will throw a rock at you.”

I force an expression of mock terror, throwing my hand up in front of my face.  “Have pity on a poor, weak amputee!”

“Weak, my ass,” he snorts.  His eyes flick up and down me, sizing me up.  His eyebrows knit together.  Jean glances pensively at the belly of the chamber, frowning deeply, evidently lost in thought. 

I’ve noticed he has a tendency to do that.  Drop off randomly in the middle of a tangent. 

I stride up to him and bump our shoulders.  “You’re probably right, y’know.  Even after all this shit, I could probably still throw you like a javelin.”

His eyes narrow.  “Don’t you dare,” he warns lowly. 

I throw my head back with laughter.  I love the way his thin lips curl up into a smile.  So small, but in many ways, so massive.  The scarcity of them doesn’t do anything but warm my heart than any other man’s that I can remember. 

And then we fall into a silence.  I walk parallel to the edge of the cliff, staring down into the cavern’s belly, and he heels at my side.  I glance at him in the corner of my eye.  Though he does not smile, he looks happy. 

I’m beginning to take this as Jean’s way.  The blustering, physical mannerisms of Berk, the bellowed greetings and engulfing bear hugs simply don’t apply to him.  His is one of simplicity.  Not emotionless, not loveless, but… distant. 

Perhaps that’s why I value the smallest of his smiles more than anything else. 

Suddenly, cold fingers brush against my stump. 

I yelp and jump backwards, yanking it away.  I smack my own hand around it protectively.  Startled, I stumble away and stare, affronted, at Jean.

Jean shrinks back, blinking owlishly.  My reaction to his odd behavior hits him a second later, and his expression crumbles.  Groaning an apology, he buries his head in his hands and hides his face away. 

“I –” I swallow, shaking my head.  My hand falls away.  “No, I just – it’s sensitive.” 

Nodding glumly into his hands, he shuffles his feet like a scolded child receiving its punishment.  For whatever reason, he’s absolutely devastated.  His refusal to meet my eye is unsettling. 

“If you want to touch it, you can,” I offer uncertainly, letting my hand slip away. 

Jean looks up hopefully.  I answer the silent question in his eyes with a hesitant smile. 

“Just – be gentle.  Okay?”

“I will be gentle,” he vows, nodding dutifully. 

Despite his assurance, my stomach knots nervously as he approaches me.  I don’t know why.  I’ve had all manners of people pestering me about it – old women cooing at the ugly red scars, kids reverently patting it with chubby, sweaty hands, and friends pressing their hand against it, then wrinkling their noses and yanking back at the “weird” feel of it moving.  Jean is no different. 

_No.  No, he is different.  Why, though?  Why is it different?_

I’m absurdly nervous that he’ll coo or pat or, worst of all, flinch away. 

So absorbed in my thoughts, I don’t notice him until he’s in front of my nose.  Jean looks at me with a question in his eyes for the second time.  I pull a smile and nod reassuringly. 

I gasp involuntarily at his cold fingers.  They rest hesitantly against my skin.  He glances at me questioningly, but runs the tips of his fingers along the knotted skin. 

His touch is so gentle.  The pads of his fingers swirl against the bone, feather-light.  They trace soft, soothing patterns against my skin, coaxing a quiet sigh from my lungs. 

Something about his touch seems so incredibly intimate.  The air is electric.  Despite the noise and the bustle, all I can hear is my own breathing, all I care to notice are his eyes fixed on my face. 

“I thought you might like that,” he says, the smallest of smiles quipping the corners of his thin lips up.  “Your skin is so smooth.”

“Thanks,” I chuckle, only slightly strained.  “How did you…?”

“I do the same things to dragons that lost a wing.”  His hand drops back to his side with a shrug.  “You’re a dragon boy.”

The mood is broken. 

I laugh chokingly, completely stunned.  “Oh, okay, is that how it is?”

“Yes.”  He nods sagely.  “You’re a crippled dragon boy.  That’s how it is.”

I shake my head, chuckling out a short, “If you say so.”  Somewhere deep inside, I note that perhaps I shouldn’t find him as charming as I do.  I shove the thought aside and continue our walk along the ledge.

Jean pads by my side.  He is quiet again.  The ferns bend beneath his feet and spring back behind him.  His carefully placed footsteps displace not even the smallest pebble with animal elegance.  How is it possible for him to be so graceful?  I’m not sure – it’s so lovely, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.  It makes me feel clumsy in comparison. 

“Marco.” 

I glance sideways at him.  “Yes, Jean?”

“Earlier.”  He fiddles with his ring finger nervously.  “I offended you.  I think.  Trying to help.  With the soup.  I didn’t know.”

_Oh.  That._

“No harm, no foul, Jean,” I say.  “You didn’t know any better.”

“So?” he huffs.  “There was harm.  Too.  I saw.  But you.  You don’t need help.”  He nods to my arm.  “You can throw me.  Like a javelin.”

“So you admit!”

“No such thing,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes.  “Let me apologize, dammit.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Jean.”  I clap my hand against his shoulder, perhaps a little roughly, for he stumbles.  “It’s a touchy subject, true, this arm of mine.  I don’t like being called a cripple.  I don’t like being treated as anything less.  But at the end of the day, I was stressed and I needed something to sulk about.  I’m sorry if I made you feel bad.  It wasn’t my intention.”

Jean’s eyes search my face.  He looks a bit like the god I’d first seen riding through the clouds, his hair tousled and his stunning eyes like two doubloons.  But there’s something more.  His expression is different, not as indifferent, it’s softer, it’s… gentle. 

On anyone else, I’d call it tenderness.  But with Jean… I can never be sure. 

“You were bullied on Berk?” he asks quietly, gesturing to my arm.  “Is that why?”

I shift uncomfortably.  “…Yes.  Bullying isn’t… you were there.  You know how we socialize.  They’re not always best at recognizing what lines shouldn’t be crossed.  _Or_ apologizing afterwards.”

His expression grows even warmer.  I notice with a flush of my cheeks that my hand is still on his shoulder and let it fall back to my side. 

“But, to be honest,” I add, “the coddling is worse.  That’s why I snapped at you.  I am sorry for that.”

“Don’t be.”  Jean glances off into the distance, vowing seriously, “I shall never be nice to you again.”

I hurl my head back with a roar of laughter. 

Jean’s lips curl in a half smile.  “But.  Marco.  …Let me know if I… cross any more lines… so I can apologize?”

He looks up at me imploringly, biting at his lip nervously. 

“Of course, Jean.  Of course.”

* * *

 

 

There isn’t much Annie hates in the world. 

She tries to live her life without wasting emotion on frivolous things – things like passion, rage, or melancholy – and hatred seems like a complete waste of time.  Dislike is as far as she’ll go in most circumstances. 

For example, she dislikes her current situation.  She dislikes this wretched archipelago.  She dislikes not having Bertholdt and Reiner by her sides.  She especially dislikes Marco Bodt and his damned Night Fury. 

However, Annie can say without a doubt that she hates the Screaming Death with every bone in her body. 

The entire crew quivers as they work.  Their eyes flash to the horizon between every step.  Fear breeds and decays the ship’s morale with every one of the monster’s screeches echoing over the empty ocean. 

The beast is stalking the fleet.  By now, everyone knows it.  They fear it.  Even in the calmest of moments, its shadow never seems far from their little ships – whenever the crew is lulled into a false sense of security by its seeming absence, it rears its ugly head. 

On the first occasion, there was chaos.  Some ships lost as much as half their crew.  It picked off many more in its second appearance.  The next time, they lost a ship.  So many sailors and warriors had died after the fourth, they’d had to abandon two more boats. 

It’d wrecked destruction upon them with such wicked ease, such malicious pleasure.  The damn worm knows very well what it was doing in its game of Cat and Mouse.  She doesn’t have a doubt it’s watching her now.  Waiting. 

Her fleet had been lackluster from the moment it’d straggled out from the archipelago base, but the final two ships sag pathetically in the water.  Their tattered sails flutter weakly in the wind. 

Annie can feel the fear bristling in her crew.  Whispering rumors, sly glances, a curse spat when they think her back is turned.  She isn’t oblivious to the resentment turned upon her. 

In any situation, it wouldn’t be surprising – when people are scared, they fall back to their worst standards.  When a monster is eating their comrades, they seek someone to blame, because of course there _has_ to be a reason for their deaths.  _Surely_ fate doesn’t kill just because it can. 

Her position is vulnerable.  Abandoning the warriors to die at the base had been the only way to survive, and she does not regret it, but they have cause to whisper nasty things.  Those nursing their wounds and wallowing in grief lash out. 

On top of everything, some of them have realized.  She can see it in their guarded gazes, their curling lips.  The crew is only a hairsbreadth away from mutiny, never mind that they’d have no one else without her.  As soon as the secret publically known, her lingering threads of leadership could dissolve entirely. 

After all, the Screaming Death could care less about them.  It doesn’t want the boats, it doesn’t want their supplies, doesn’t even want her men. 

The Screaming Death wants Annie.

* * *

 

 

Life under the Bewilderbeast’s wings has a certain pattern. 

Not a monotony, never a monotony, not with the color and life of those living here, but a pattern.  No matter how wild a day, no matter how exciting, it is still just a day.  The dragons and he always would live or die, and sleep and repeat.  Never strayed from the routine, never wandered far, never questioned the Bewilderbeast’s rule. 

It was peaceful, and it was wonderful, and it was dull, and it was exhilarating.  A member of the flock.  The only man.  Small in the eyes of the Bewilderbeast.  Giant in the eyes of all others.  The peaceful, wonderful, dull routine, never changing, ever constant, ever present as the air he breathed.  The routine of the many.  His routine.  It became as natural as his beating heart. 

The routine has been disrupted by a pair of soft eyes. 

Their color – chocolate or fresh, overturned soil?

Jean steals a glance sideways, studying the interloper intently – he’s caressing a dragon Jean has come to accept as one of many, same as him.  His lips form cooing sweet nothings that pour like golden honey into its ears.  It, of course, loves him.  Loves him and his soft, kind eyes. 

_His eyes are not chocolate or soil._

This troubles Jean.  Which is odd.  Not many things have bothered him like this.  Certainly nothing from an interloper. 

Frowning, he glares down at the massive Bewilderbeast, silently imploring it for an answer to the sudden disruption of peace in his world.  _Why does this matter?  Why is everything wrong?_

Because it’s more than caring about what color his eyes are.  When Jean goes out on flights with the many, he thinks about Marco.  When Eydis carries him to distant islands to search for new dragons, he only wonders if perhaps he’ll find another Night Fury.  When he settles down to sleep on the floor beside Marco, he lays awake for too long and simply stares at his bare shoulders, tracing constellations between his freckles with his gaze. 

For the first time in too long, in not long enough, he feels curiosity.  He feels a _drive._   He wants to hear about Marco and how he’s adapted with one arm, he wants to learn about each of the children in the Dragon Academy, he wants to know about the Village he tried to scrub clean from his memory.  More than anything, Jean wants to curl up beside the fire again and listen to Marco’s soft voice. 

Jean isn’t sure what’s more troubling – the reappearance of this drive or the fact that it’d been missing in the first place. 

As if it could hear his thoughts, the Bewilderbeast opens his heavy-hanging eyes, so small in comparison to the rest of his face – _had they always been that small?  Had he noticed?  Had he cared?_ – and meets Jean’s gaze.  It lifts its head slowly, and water cascades from the monstrously thick tusks jutting out from either side of its face. 

With an uncharacteristic streak of boldness, Jean holds its wise, knowing gaze.  The dragons surrounding him chitter and cower, bowing their heads, but for whatever reason, he does not.  It scares him. 

_Am I not one?  What’s wrong with me?  Why do I not feel…_

Feel what?  What has changed?

A hand claps lightly on his shoulder, causing him to jump.  Jean is then acutely aware that he is not the only one that doesn’t cower before the Bewilderbeast. 

“I’ll never get used to that dragon, I don’t think,” Marco whispers in awe.  “He’s absolutely gorgeous, with that brilliant mane of bristles.”

Jean pinches Marco’s arm with a fearful glance to the Bewilderbeast, noticing the strength its gathering in preparation to rise from its bed.  “Bow,” he hisses.

“Oh.”  Marco blinks once, twice, then sinks into a low crouch.  Jean hastily follows, hunching his back uncomfortably until his forehead touches the mossy rock. 

The Bewilderbeast rumbles as low and menacing as the earth itself, and the very sound of it shifting in the water sends a chill down Jean’s spine.  Dimly, he hopes Marco won’t notice the quivering in his muscles.  Perhaps it is too subtle for the other man to pick up on. 

Marco bumps Jean’s arm softly.  Swallowing down his dread, he raises his eyes to meet those sweet brown eyes – _perhaps the color of sparrows’ down_ – and realizes that there is a fearful apology in then. 

“I’m sorry,” he mouths, and Jean notices the trembling in his bare torso, the goosebumps and terrified furrow of his eyebrows. 

The most peculiar feeling of melting washes over Jean.  Shooting Marco an attempt of a smile back, he leans against the interloper.  Through his leather armor, Jean can feel the pleasant warmth of Marco’s skin as his arm slowly stops trembling. 

His bare chest is heaving.  Clean wounds cross over his side, bandages torn away by his own request.  Speckled skin stretched over muscular shoulders.  Hair hangs down into his face, his eyelashes flutter, like butterfly wings, against his freckled cheeks, and pink lips part with his shuddering breath.  His broad, powerful hand, planted beside Jean’s. 

The tension leaves Marco.  He tips his head back and laughs breathily, leaning back on his haunches.  Jean, missing the warmth of his skin against his arm, leans back as well, knowing instinctively the danger of the Bewilderbeast has passed. 

“That was intense,” Marco murmurs, glancing briefly towards Jean, then looking back towards the Bewilderbeast.  The most absurd sensation floods Jean – he wants Marco to keep looking at him, which is ridiculous.  _Why?  Why?_

“He is intense,” Jean says tersely, glaring down at his hands.  _What is wrong?  What has Marco done to you?_

The interloper perhaps heard his tone – of course he heard his tone, Marco is soft and knowing, Marco is kind, he shouldn’t blame sweet Marco. 

“I’m sorry that I didn’t bow,” Marco says apologetically, bumping his shoulder against Jean’s.  “I forgot.”

“I didn’t bow first,” Jean says dismissively.  In a subtle attempt to change the subject, he inquires on Marco’s wellbeing. 

Marco gives him a sidelong glance, but he doesn’t remark on the change.  As he talks, dragons flock around him and nuzzle against his freckled shoulders, seeking his attention.  Jean feels that peculiar emotion again when Marco vastly ignores them for Jean. 

He says cheerfully that his wounds feel amazing and not sick at all – Jean is quick to remind him that he _is sick still._  Marco laughs at that.  Marco laughs at a lot of things.  Jean thinks that Marco likes to laugh. 

“I mean, if I had any complaint,” Marco says, scratching idly beneath the chin of an affectionate Snafflefang, “it’s that I’m a bit chilly without a shirt.”  He beams at Jean, gesturing towards his bare chest.  “But again, I can manage.”

“We can get cloth,” Jean says thoughtfully, stroking distractedly across the muzzle of a needy Monstrous Nightmare that’d shoved its nose in his lap. 

“It’s no trouble,” Marco chuckles.  He squeaks a little bit as another dragon butts its nose against his forehead.  Laughing, he rubs his broad hand against its muzzle and adds, “These sweet babies are keeping me warm.”

Jean glances down at Marco’s bare torso.  “You don’t want to fly?” he asks, confused.

That gets Marco’s attention.  His head snaps up, and he looks so lovely, surrounded by colorful dragons, the long, emerald ferns bent to bear his weight.  Marco’s lips part and his eyes widen. 

“Flying?” he repeats breathlessly. 

Jean suppresses laughter.  “Yes.  To get cloth.”

“Can we?”  He stumbles to his feet, nudging the dragons away.  “Can we really?”

Nodding, Jean stands up beside him, unable to help his smile.  “Yes, we can.  Do you want to?”

“Yes.”  Marco smiles like sunshine.  “Yes, yes please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings all! I'm really excited for the next few chapters. Really, I am. But they might take me a little longer to get out than usual because of exams; I'm sorry in advance. 
> 
> I've loved talking with all of you in the comments so much. Honestly, I live off of the sweet things you say. Thank you so much. 
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Raincutter](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Raincutter)  
> -[Bewilderbeast](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Bewilderbeast)  
> 


	7. Test Drive

Orochi’s wings slice through the clouds like daggers.  To any spectators, he must seem like a dark blur, a dash of blackness against the blue sky.  The ferocious wind numbs my cheeks.  The salt it carries sends hot tears streaking from the corners of my eyes.  It screams in my ears and yanks at my clothes and rakes icy talons through my hair and there could be nothing more _fantastic_ in this moment. 

The joyful shout that bursts from my lips only goads him to go _faster_ , faster still – the clouds whip past us and the ocean sparkles so _brightly_ below.  An ache builds in the base of my neck, so I press my face against Orochi’s skin to protect it from the whiplash.

Even pressed against his neck, everything is filled with electric magic.  The howl of the wind, the numbness of my fingers, the sting of tears in my eyes – _this_ is what I’ve been missing.  I love this so passionately, so indescribably much that I do not believe I could survive without it; my heart dances, it sings, it beats in tune to the great strokes of his powerful wings. 

I breathe in deeply – the cold air burns my throat and hurts my lungs, and I feel _alive,_ I feel so vividly aware of everything there is to know. 

Another presence causes a ripple in this wild perfection.  I raise my head ever so slightly to see where the ripple came from.  As my eyes land on Eydis, struggling against the wind beside us, the feeling shatters. 

“No,” I croon softly, pressing my face against Orochi’s hot skin, my words lost to the wind.  Petulantly, I breathe in deep to recapture the wildness.  But the fervor is gone now, and though it’s the same salt-scented wind, the same chill in my fingers, the charge in the air is gone. 

Orochi is already slowing down.  I can hear the rumble of his discontent, feel the reverberation of his slowing heartbeat beneath my fingertips, and press an apologetic kiss to his shoulder. 

“I don’t want to, either,” I murmur against his scales. 

“Marco!” Jean snaps, loudly enough for me to hear him over the wind. 

I click my heels against Orochi’s sides, and he instantly screeches to a halt.  Stifling a giggle as Eydis barrels ridiculously past, I sit up in the saddle and watch them flounder. 

Tossing her head back, Eydis roars in frustration.  Her four wings burst out in all their glory, steadying her midair as she bumbles to a halt.  They hover for a moment like confused buzzards, but then Eydis whips her head around, locks eyes with me, and narrows them lividly. 

I grin sheepishly.  “Sorry!” I call over my shoulder.  My voice is wrecked and hoarse from the cold wind, but when I swallow, it only feels worse. 

Sitting up in the saddle, I watch Eydis pivot about with an elegant flick of her wings.  Upon her back, Jean subtly shifts his weight to match her stroke and then taps her neck, ever so slightly, with his staff, prompting her forward.  She glides towards us effortlessly. 

I am so absorbed in marveling their beautiful flight that their proximity doesn’t truly register until Eydis blows us backwards with one beat of her many wings. 

Orochi squeals with displeasure at having the other dragon so close in the spacious sky.  We wobble uneasily, the air currents thrown off by her nearness.  He hisses at her bitterly as their wingbeats overlap; Eydis seems utterly perplexed.

“There’s no need to be so stingy,” I murmur to him with a roll of my eyes.  I stroke circular motions into his warm scales, shushing and clucking sweet nothings in his ears.  His bold growl softens into a smug purr, but he does not back down. 

I glance briefly up at Jean, who’s observing us with the keenest of interest.  I try not to feel flustered by his gaze.  Gently, I tug backwards on Orochi’s chest, leaning back in the saddle. 

“Come on, boy,” I urge. 

With a reluctant grumble, he obeys and gives Eydis her space in the sky. 

They hover just inches above the layer of fluffy clouds, the very tips of Eydis’ wings delving into them and stringing lines of white after them.  Her blue highlights seem especially beautiful with the brilliant turquoise of the sky.  I lift my gaze to seek Jean’s – he yanks off his helmet and looks down upon me with awe in his eyes. 

“You manage him so well,” Jean praises, speaking loudly over the sound of the wind.  “I’m sorry for bringing her close.”

“You did amazingly!”  Keeping my hand assuagingly rested upon Orochi’s forehead, I sit up and fix him with a broad grin.  “I’ve never seen someone ride a dragon like that – and so successfully too!  It’s incredible.”

A shamelessly cocky grin breaks out over his face.  “Eydis is a lovely flyer.  Beautiful in the air.  But so is Orochi – Night Furies _are_ the fastest in the sky. 

“Hell yeah.”  I clap my hand against Orochi’s neck proudly, grinning from ear to ear.  “He’s got a lot of energy, though – hasn’t been out in the sky for a while.  Not with me he hasn’t.  He was, uh, a little over-eager to get back into our usual rhythm.”

Jean raises an eyebrow.  “I think that was as much him as you.  You’re sick.  And riding bareback.  You need to remember that.”

“I’m not sick,” I protest. 

Jean harrumphs skeptically, but he seems unwilling to pursue it.  “The trader is due east of here.  Not long travelling distance.”

“Let’s go!” I exclaim, nudging Orochi’s sides excitedly.  With a powerful sweep of his inky black wings, he shoots forward.  Chuckling with amusement, Jean taps Eydis and follows us with us a much more leisurely pace. 

Much to Orochi’s chagrin, I keep our own speed relatively slow.  There is no need to rudely leave Jean in the dust again.  To make up for our sloth, I press my stomach against his back and wrap my arm around his neck.  His beautiful black wings glide as gracefully as Eydis’s, I realize with a touch of pride. 

The sky is empty and quiet besides the mundane din of physical existence.  For whatever reason, it isn’t awkward.  The fierce howl of the gales before had been exhilarating.  But these zephyrs aren’t so bad. 

Even without a sunrise or sunset painting the sky with vivid colors, the sky is beautiful.  The light doesn’t have my favorite bold golden color, nor are the clouds the color of ash, but I love this setting almost as much. 

The clouds catch on our dragon’s beating wings, trailing behind us like the wakes of passing ships.  They’re fluffy and towering.  Whenever Orochi drifts through one of their massive bodies, I come through the other side covered in a thousand dewdrops like tiny crystals.  Perhaps their enormity would be menacing if they weren’t so gentle. 

Delicate as gossamer, the pale yellow light casts it all in an airy tone.  There is an undeniable innocence to all this.  It feels like I should be lying on a grassy hillside with Jean, blowing at dandelion puffs and watching their seeds disperse. 

I steal a sideways glance at him, sat cross-legged on the crook of Eydis’s neck.  His eyes are closed, lips pulled back in a smile as lovely as the world around us.  Dewdrops sparkle on his cheeks.  The serenity in his expression is beautiful – his happiness lightens my heart in my chest.  Smiling to myself, I cast my eyes forward in a lovely bliss. 

“We’re almost to the trader’s mountain.”  Jean’s voice echoes through the empty sky with resounding clarity.  He hasn’t yet opened his eyes, but his smile has fallen. 

Orochi sweeps left then right through the pillars of clouds, and the tip of a mountain comes into view ahead of us.  It looks black against the sunlight, slender, like the tip of a needle.  Glancing quizzically towards Jean, I wonder how one island could hold such a massive mountain yet be so quaint. 

Jean misinterprets my gaze.  “You can fly fast down there if you want,” he says indifferently, watching me from the corner of his eyes.  “I don’t care.”

“…Really?”

“What do you think I’m gonna say?”  He smirks.  “‘Just kidding?’”

“I suppose not.”  My stomach flutters eagerly at the promise of flight.  Sensing my sudden burst of excitement, Orochi glances back at me.  He studies me with one eye – I beam down at him, and it widens.  Whipping his head back around, he snarls giddily. 

“Look for a dock,” Jean comments, almost as a second thought.  “We’re landing on her dock.”

I grin across the clouds at him.  “See you on the flip side, Jean.”

Yelling, I kick my heels against Orochi’s side.  His roar echoes like a sonic boom, and he shoots forward like an arrow from a bow.  I tuck myself against his spine, laughing at the memory of Jean’s face before we’d taken off. 

Our shadow dances on the clouds beneath us as they blur past.  We burst through tower after tower, the droplets stinging on my face.  The mountain on the horizon swells closer and closer.  In my ears, the wind buzzes with excitement. 

“Go,” I whisper softly against his scales. 

Orochi’s nose tips forward, and his wings close gradually against his body.  Gravity takes hold, and we plummet like stones.  I tuck myself against him – the wind is biting, moisture stinging against my cheeks and arms.  My heart sings with its familiar fierceness, the last streak of exhilaration throbbing in every pulse of my blood. 

Diving forward foolishly, stupidly, incredibly, Orochi roars in freedom.  The wind screams around us as it only does for a Night Fury, shrieking with reckless abandon, as if it, too, shares the adrenaline pounding through our veins.  The clouds vanish, the ocean stretches below, and the indifferent mountain looms. 

At the last moment before we hit the water with enough force to break both of our necks, Orochi’s wings slam outwards.  They fill like the sails of ships.  The scream of the wind becomes a low whistle as it fights against those lovely wings.  Against his back, there is none of that wind, nor known of the gales shoving me downwards.  It is the eddy behind a rock in a frothing river, the safety behind a shield. 

My heartbeat roars in my ears. 

I lean backwards and relinquish my hold on Orochi, throwing my arm out towards the sky. 

The wind tugs at my hair, buffets my bare chest and stings in my cuts.  It pours over my every facet, lapping like the tongues of flame and burning cold as ice.  I’m held in place by that wind, as fragile as a blade of wheat, so able to smash or snap so, so easily.  But at the same moment, I’m as strong as rock, surrounded by this ferocious power without being harmed at all.  I am as delicate as a single intricate snowflake but with as much might at the entire blizzard. 

I can imagine no greater bliss.  Laughing like a madman, I let the wind blast away my every imperfection. 

Then, abruptly, it jars to a halt.  Orochi’s wings snap back by his side.  It throws me forward against his neck.  I gasp for breath.  My arm loops around his neck feebly in search of purchase. 

Orochi angles himself towards a cove automatically, a small half-moon taken from the side of the island.  There in the black water stretches a single rickety dock.  Nudging him into position, I wrap myself ever tighter in preparation for impact.

He hits the deck running, bounding lightly, easing to a slow halt as the wooden boards rattle slightly.  Orochi’s wings wilt by his side, his chest heaving beneath me.  I throw my head back and gasp, filling my lungs with the crisp air again.  A violent shiver tears through me from the cooling sweat on my chest. 

A slight breeze sweeps around the cove.  Gently, it caresses my cheeks, rifles gently through my tousled hair; before it leaves me behind in the stagnancy of the ground, it whispers into my ears a promise to meet again soon.  And, just like that, it’s gone. 

Swinging one leg over his neck, I slide off his back. 

My legs tingle with post-flight weariness.  I lean heavily against Orochi.  He nudges my side gently with his blunt nose, blowing affectionate puffs into my face.  Smiling affectionately down at him, I scratch beneath his jaw until he’s purring.   

Seconds later, Eydis reappears in the low-hanging clouds, a dark shadow cloaked by the mist.  Struck again by her power, I watch her proud wings cup the air.  She’s so different than Orochi – so graceful, so large, peaceful, and _silent_ – but she’s gorgeous.  It’s odd thinking so highly of a dragon that isn’t my own best friend.

Jean leaps off of Eydis while she hovers above us, her great wings throwing gusts of air into our faces.  Landing in a sinuous crouch, he scampers off moments before Eydis’ heavy legs pound against the deck.  The foundation shakes and the entire construction shivers – I wrap my arm around Orochi for support as the world shakes beneath my feet. 

“Jean!” cries a high-pitched, female voice.  Orochi’s ears perk, and his head whips around.  His eyes narrow, and a low snarl rips from his lips, wrinkling his muzzle. 

I follow his gaze to a tiny woman running along a path towards the docks, a stream of blonde hair floating behind her. 

To my surprise, Jean laughs as well.  He strides bravely past us, moving to meet the small woman.  I notice with a touch of surprise that he’s completely comfortable in this environment, moreso than he is in his own home.  His light, unconscious smile is something incredibly intriguing to me. 

She skips up the deck, fairy-like in her steps, and dashes forward.  Her arms stretch out as if she’s going to catch Jean in a hug.  Skidding around the corner of the dock, she barrels forward towards Jean, and I see her eyes sparkling, her smile enormous –

She darts around Jean, ducking to avoid his outstretched arms, and comes to a screeching halt in front of Orochi and I.

“Oh, my God,” she whispers, eyes wide as saucers.  “Is this a Night Fury?  A real, flesh-and-blood Night Fury?”

The petite woman whirls around to a disgruntled Jean.  “Pinch me, I must be dreaming.  Because this _looks_ like a Night Fury, Jean.”

Shyly, I run a hand through my hair and smile at the ground.  “He’s a Night Fury, yeah.”

She whirls about and looks up at me in surprise with big, blue eyes, like she’s just noticed my presence.  Her cute, pink lips fall open into an O of surprise.  There is then the few seconds of silence as we both size one another up. 

Swaddled in warm clothing and with a furry hood fallen back over her shoulders, she would seem adorable if not for the strap over one shoulder riddled with daggers, hooks, and needles.  Her hands aren’t fighting hands – they’re softer than even Jean’s, the hands of a daisy-picker – but I don’t doubt her ability to wield any one of those weapons.  Her hair is glossy as I’m sure mine will never be, and her face is delicate, beautiful, and soft. 

Strangely, I’m bothered by this.  This and the shine in Jean’s eyes as he looks at her. 

“Oh!” the woman exclaims.  “Hello!  Who’re you?”

“That’s Marco,” says Jean, padding up beside her, smiling warmly towards me.  “He is staying with me.”

“What?” she says, sounding shocked.  “You’ve been making friends, Jean?  Do you even remember how to socialize?” 

He opens his mouth to retort, but she waves him aside, smiling sweetly at me.  “Hello, Marco, I’m Krista.  I’m the closest thing Jean’s had to a friend in a long time.  Mostly because I’m the one person he _has_ to talk to.  Nice to meet you.”

“I’m glad to meet you,” I say, smiling, taking her outstretched hand.  My massive fingers engulf hers entirely.  “It’s nice to see a friendly face other than Jean’s.”

With a pang, I realize that I must be particularly wretched, bruised up and scarred.  I probably look like the dead come alive again.  But to my surprise and gratitude, Krista seems to pay my appearance no heed.  She had offered her left hand without a second thought.  I feel a surge of relief and affection towards the tiny woman. 

 “Jean’s not so bad a face to see, I’d wager,” Krista hums, smiling brightly.  “He’s a crazy hermit, but he’s got a lot of heart.”

Jean squawks indignantly, staring at Krista with betrayal.  Bellowing with laughter, I throw my head back and clap a hand upon his shoulder, staggering him. 

“She means you no harm,” I reassure, beaming down at him.  His eyes widen and his cheeks flush – glancing away, he mumbles something about how _of course he knew that,_ and it _still being rude as fuck_.  A gentle smile pulls at his lips, though.  He doesn’t shove my touch away. 

Krista’s eyes dart between the two of us.  Her expression worries me a little bit.  My hand drops from his shoulder uncertainly. 

“So, Krista,” I say, moving it instead to my dragon’s nose, “this is Orochi.  He’s a Night Fury, yes.  He’s also a bit of a grump, so excuse his manners.”

“I thought I heard that whistle!” she says breathily, her eyes going wide with adoration.  “The flying whistle – I’ve only ever read about that!  Everyone thinks they’re extinct.  Obviously they’re not, though,” she adds, smiling at Orochi. 

He growls softly at her, nose wrinkling.  When she smiles broader, baring her teeth at him, he arches his back threateningly. 

I give him a light smack on the nose.  “Be nice,” I scold.  Glancing apologetically at Krista, I laugh apologetically, “I hope he lives up to legends, even if he’s a grumpy ass.”

“Oh, no, trust me, he’s so much more than I ever dreamed,” she coos adoringly.  “His scales are gorgeous, so are those lovely eyes.  So beautiful – look at his wings, oh my!” 

I’ve always been fond of Orochi’s wings.  Long and velvety, they lack the knobby fingers of other dragon species.  Theirs is a more streamlined aesthetic.  My heart nearly bursts with pride. 

“He is lovely,” I murmur, resting my hand against his forehead.  “And very loyal, too.  Very loyal, very smart.”

“The texts I’ve read said that Night Furies were among the most intelligent of dragons,” Krista says with a smile.  “Smartest thinkers and most terrifying fighters.  Is it true that he has purple fire?”

“His breath is like lightning, yes.”  I sweep my hand along the steel bands of muscle in his neck, massaging him calmingly.  “Flies as fast as lightning, too.  Isn’t a dragon alive that’s beat us yet.”

“I heard you as you flew, it’s incredible to think you actually get that fast,” Krista says, her eyes twinkling.  “You really whistled, just like legends said.  Tell me – how does it feel when you’re going that fast?  What does that even feel like?”

“It’s utterly indescribable,” I say solemnly.  Orochi looks up at me, his green eyes softening.  Forgetting momentarily about Krista’s threat, he butts his nose against my face, nuzzling me.  I kiss him softly and nudge him back, forgetting just like him about our audience. 

“He reminds me of a cat,” Krista notes in surprise. 

I throw my head back in a boisterous laugh.  “You’re very right,” I chuckle, patting Orochi’s tense shoulder.  “He’s feline in a lot ways.  Here – would you like to touch him?”

Her eyes widen with yearning.  “Yes!” she squeaks.  “But –”  She glances at Jean.  “Won’t he bite my hand off?  I know I’m not supposed to touch Jean’s dragon…”

“Marco will teach you,” Jean says confidently, meeting my gaze.  “That is his job at the village.”  He smiles.  “His job is to teach children how to bond with dragons.”

Krista’s eyes flicker between the two of us.  Again, there’s the flash of something in those eyes I don’t understand, but it’s gone too fast to notice.

“Will you teach me?” she asks in a hushed, excited voice.  “Will I be able to fly with Orochi?”

I chuckle, charmed by her enthusiasm.  “No, not quite yet.  The bond between rider and dragon is especially prevalent in his species.  He won’t let you ride him until he’s gotten to know you a bit better.”

“So, like, not a first meeting sort of thing?” she says, sounding a little put out. 

“Unfortunately not,” I lament, smiling apologetically.

“That’s okay.”  Krista’s eyes scintillate.  “I guess that just means you’ll have to come by and visit me more often, okay?”

I feel my heart melt.  “Of course,” I say softly.  “I’ll be sure to come back as many times as you want me too.  Now, copy my body language” – I move to her side, much to Orochi’s dismay – “and fall into a crouch in front of him.”

She’s so tiny that, technically, she doesn’t quite need to, but I prefer to teach everyone the crouching technique, not just the giants.  Poor Armin didn’t know quite how to handle a tiny Terrible Terror when he wanted to befriend it.  So, I drop to one knee, and she copies me. 

“Good, that’s very good,” I compliment.  “Just, ah – relax your shoulders more – that’s it.”

She seems much calmer with her shoulders lax.  I appreciate that she didn’t curl up in herself – it proves she’s got mettle.  I smile to myself, turning to Orochi. 

“Alright, now hold out your hand,” I instruct, doing the same.  “Palm facing him, fingers slightly splayed –”

Her hand quivers before the snarling jaws of Orochi, which, considering that his face is contorted with rage and his reputation as “the unholy offspring of lightning and death”, is understandable.  Gently, I touch her elbow and shake my head. 

“Be _strong_ ,” I say firmly.  “Dragons eat sheep.  You don’t want to depict yourself as another lamb for them to gobble up – you’re a predator, same as them, and you have nothing to fear.  Get in that mindset.”

“Okay.”  She holds her head a bit higher, stiffens her arm.  “How’s this?”

“Excellent!  That’s – that’s actually perfect, great job Krista.  Now all we’ve got to do” – I shoot a glare at Orochi – “is wait for his response.  Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you – you just don’t let that arm fall.  Can you do that?”

“I can try.”  Her choice of words isn’t exactly reassuring.  However, the daring flash in her blue eyes and the challenging grin across her face are. 

“Okay.”  I rise up and back away, my own arm dropping by my side.  Orochi watches suspiciously, his ear flaps held tightly back.  Eyes darting to Krista, he rumbles a question low in his chest.  I keep my expression clear as to not give him any hint to go off of. 

Orochi’s head whips around, snakelike, to face Krista.  His eyes narrow.  He bares his teeth in a ferocious, ripping snarl, sinking into a predatory crouch in front of her.  Despite his display, she keeps her arm held firmly outwards. 

Wings shuffling anxiously against his back, Orochi flares his nostrils in irritation.  His eyes are seas of green, pupils a dark, thin line through the center; they’re fixed determinedly on Krista, as if he’s trying to break her façade with his glare alone. 

Of course, I know better than any how intense he can be.  It might very well work. 

Then, subtly, he plants one foot closer to her.  Krista gasps, and he pauses, testing the water between them.  Beneath his gaze, she once more holds firm. 

So slowly, he approaches her.  The slit of black through his green eyes widens inquisitively.  Muzzle unwrinkling from its snarl, he sniffs at the space between them with a more innocent expression.  Ear flaps once held crossly against his neck now twitch and swivel curiously – they’re not erect with happiness, but he’s curious.  It’s a good sign.

He inches closer and closer until they’re separated by a mere foot or two.  Beside him, a jet black beast with muscle of steel, tiny, blonde Krista looks so frail. 

He puffs a breath into her face. 

To my relief, Krista giggles.  “That tickles,” she says lightly. 

Orochi’s ears perk up at the sound of her voice.  He sits down, eyes fixed on her attentively, looking decidedly eager.  Krista smiles up at him, absolutely dwarfed by his size. 

“Talk to him again,” I urge softly.  Glancing nervously towards me, she nods ever so slightly.

“Hello, Orochi,” she coos.  “My name’s Krista.  I don’t mean you or Marco any harm.  You’re a very handsome boy, you know that?  Very pretty.  You look so soft.”

Orochi cocks his head.  He drops back down to four legs, but his ears are still pricked towards her. 

“Very pretty indeed,” Krista says softly.  “My mum used to tell me stories about you Night Furies, you know.  They were always terrifying things – I needed to clean my room or a Night Fury would gobble me up – but when I travelled, I read all sorts of things about your kind.”

Orochi opens his mouth and breathes softly against her again.  His teeth are retracted this time – _thank Thor._  

“Yes,” she giggles, “I did!  Did you know that you might very well be the last of your kind?  It’s sad, really, but I feel incredibly blessed to meet you at the same time.  You’re absolutely gorgeous.  I feel – oh!”

And here she exclaims in surprise because Orochi presses his nose firmly against her palm.  He breathes out heavily, gaze boring into her.  Then, as quickly as he’d moved towards her, he pulls his nose back.  Leaping clean over her head, he collides with the planks beside me. 

Orochi rumbles and nudges his forehead against my limp hand, curling his tail possessively around my body.  He spares one glance to Krista, before looking away and snorting indifferently.  

 _She’s okay, I guess._  

I smile so broadly my cheeks hurt and offer my hand to Krista.  “That was excellent.  Are you sure you’ve never dealt with a dragon before?”

“I used to help with the horses.”  She lets me help her up.  “Similar concept, higher stakes.  But oh, my God!  Thank you so much for teaching me that – it’s incredible.”

“It’s my job,” I say humbly.  “No need to thank me.”

“You are very good at your job,” Jean notes, startling me.  To be frank, I’d forgotten he was here. 

“You don’t have to sound so surprised, Jean,” I chuckle, sparing him a smile to show I mean it not literally. 

“This entire system is so foreign to me,” Krista admits.  “Like, you have clans – _tribes_ , sorry – that teach kids how to do this?!  It’s crazy.  I can’t wrap my head around it.”

I cock an eyebrow at her.  “We didn’t always,” I remind her. 

“I know, but – still,” she says enthusiastically.  “It’s amazing.  And, well, just that little thing I did with Orochi was amazing – I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be bonded with him like you are.”

“It’s amazing.”  I watch the horizon with a pleasant, distracted smile.  “Maybe someday you’ll find out.”

Jean hums.  I can’t tell if it’s in agreement or not, but he seems distant as well, his amber eyes focused elsewhere.  His arms are crossed over his chest, but not defensively – he leans back against the post of the dock, looking at ease and peaceful.  Never back at the dragon den had he been so relaxed or calm, despite it being his home for an undetermined amount of time.  This new serenity is in equal parts strange and pleasant. 

“Hey, Marco, I think Jean and I ought to get to the business transactions,” Krista chirps, breaking me from my reverie. 

With a dull “uh?” and slow blinks like stupid cattle, I turn to her, my mouth open. 

“Good idea.”  Jean jerks a thumb out to the water.  “You can fly while we work.  If you want.”

“Not afraid I’ll keel over from fever?” I tease, bumping him with my shoulder. 

Jean glances away and towards the ground.  “It’s your fault if you do,” he says with his typical bluntness.  He jumps a little at my loud burst of laughter, turning with wide eyes, but a smile curls at the corners of his lips. 

“I’ll be back before long,” I tell the two of them, tapping my fingers lightly against Orochi’s shoulder.  He bounds excitedly beside me, tongue waggling out of his mouth expectantly.  Behind me, Krista whispers softly, “ _Oh, he’s so cute!_ ”

The dragon snorts indignantly.  With a disciplining pat on his neck, I roll my eyes and climb onto his back.  He growls lowly, but his annoyance with Krista is quickly overridden by the promise of the sky beneath our wings again.  With a tap of my heels, he bounds forward across the deck. 

The wind laps tentatively along my bare shoulders, cold and biting.  When I breathe in, the cold sea salt it carries stings my lungs.  Orochi quivers apprehensively beneath me. 

I spare a final glance back to Jean and Krista.  Already, Krista seems distracted by the matter at hand, fishing for something in her pocket.  Her rapture with Night Furies doesn’t rank higher than her business, it seems. 

But Jean…

His eyes lock with mine, for only a second, and his lips lift at the corners. 

Suddenly, despite the cold numbness of the wind, my cheeks feel very warm.

* * *

 

A Skrill isn’t a dragon to be meddled with.  Even if they accept you, even if you’re friends with them, everyone on Berk knows it – a Skrill is dangerous. 

Elusive and slippery as eels, Skrills’ mysterious tendency to only appear during the peak of a storm shrouded them in secrecy.  Nothing was known other than their existence, and that only after proved by Hanji when Eren was a child. 

Lightning danced along their razor sharp spines and exploded from their maws.  They were foul-tempered.  Black as death and twice as dangerous, the thought of approaching the silent killers to learn more was blasphemous. 

In reality, a Skrill was a standoffish creature.  Even when bonded, they hardly ever appeared in the village or socialized with other dragons.  They didn’t accept others with open arms – their affection had to be earned through a slow, grueling process of calm, respectful gestures.  And when they loved, they loved _intensely_.  A Skrill devotes its life to its rider. 

In other words, Sindri was a perfect dragon for Mikasa. 

But her aloof attitude meant she had to be separated.  That meant she lived on the far, uninhabited side of the island, where no one would dare go but those who sought her.  Basically – Sindri’s a real bitch to get to. 

Eren thinks that maybe, Mikasa enjoys the solitude on the Far Cliffs too.  After all, when not training alongside him, she can usually be found on one of the many rocky outcroppings littering the far side of the island. 

When she was nowhere to be found in the village, both he and Armin had known immediately where to find her.  Eren had volunteered to fetch her.  The grueling path seemed much more appealing to take himself rather than the thought Armin getting caught in the brambles lining the trail or tumbling off the rocks at the end of the journey. 

Puffing, Eren doubles over himself and glances around at the maze of grey, rocky towers.  Usually, it’s tough to find them amongst the nooks and cracks in the stone cliffsides, but today, they lounge in plain view.  Zaps of lightning sparkle beside Mikasa, curled lithely into a hollow of a rock a little ways off. 

Grinning, Eren scrabbles over the stones to her.  He cuts his hands on the rocks as he trips and lurches forward, but he shoves himself back up and keeps running. 

“Mikasa!” Eren calls once he’s certain the wind and sea won’t snatch away his voice.  Sindri lifts her head.  

She eyes Eren skeptically as he approaches.  Her ghostly white eyes blink once, twice.  A few warning sparks pop and whiz from behind her crown of spines, but she drops her head into Mikasa’s lap. 

Mikasa fixes Eren with her impassive dark eyes.  “Hi,” she says simply. 

“Hey,” Eren pants, winded from the scramble.  “Needed to talk to you.”

“Oh?”  She arches an eyebrow elegantly.  “You’re not going after Marco without me, you know.”

Eren gawps at her for a few stupid seconds.  Snapping his mouth shut, he asks, “How did you…?”

“Wasn’t difficult.”  She tilts her head to one side, and her eyes sparkle with a smile.  “I’m impressed you got Armin on board.” 

“Seriously, how did you know?” Eren wonders, furrowing his brow.  “I’m… confused.”

She smiles, just a little bit.  “Armin went up to Ymir last night and talked to her quietly.  Ymir walked away from her forge whistling.  Can’t recall the last time I’ve seen Ymir whistle.”

Eren nods in understanding – there’d be only two things that’d cheer up Ymir that much, and there hadn’t been any shipments of Red Death Whiskey as far as he’d known.  “Okay, got it.  That makes sense.  You think anyone else noticed?”

“Noticed that Ymir was whistling?”  Mikasa shakes her head.  “Whole village at least.  Noticed the reason behind it?  Maybe Pixis.  He was with me.”

“Right.”  Eren grimaces.  “We’ll have to do damage control on that one.  Pixis’s wife is chatty as fuck.”

“Already did.”  She smiles widely.  “I can’t have you getting caught by Erwin or anything – you’d only run off and do something stupider.  I might not catch you that time.”

He snorts and rolls his eyes.  “I don’t need you protecting me, Mikasa.”

She shrugs.  “We need all of our best assets out there if we have a chance at finding Marco again.  I’m strong.  Stronger than you.”

Eren grumbles.  “…Yeah, okay, you’re right.  Listen, Ymir’s worked double-time to make a new saddle for Sindri, find some time to pick it up, yeah?”

“So confident I was going to say yes,” Mikasa notes, amused. 

He grins widely.  “You’re just as stupid as the rest of us, ‘Kasa.  Can’t fool me.”

“I suppose I can’t.”  Nudging Sindri’s head out of her lap, she stands and stretches.  “Where is Armin, by the way?”

Eren’s brow furrows.  “Finishing up his shifts with Hanji.  Why?”

“I need him to tell me when he wants this escape to happen.”  She smiles deviously.  “I’ll run whatever he needs run past Erwin.”

Eren frowns deeper.  “I can do that,” he protests, confused.

She rolls her eyes ever so slightly.  “Eren, I can guarantee that I’ll get whatever he needs done, done,” she says simply.  “You know that.”

“What?! I –” _Oh.  Right._ The Chief trusts Mikasa vastly more than he trusts Eren – anything coming out of her mouth is taken much more seriously than anything he says.  Normally, he’d be offended by the insinuation, but she’s right and arguing over it won’t help Marco. 

He grins sheepishly.  “Yeah, okay, got me there.”  Stepping closer, Eren rests a hand lightly on her shoulder.  “You take care of yourself, okay, Mikasa?  Can’t have you getting hurt.”

Her eyes shimmer.  “I could say the same thing to you.  Except there’s actually a possibility you’ll get hurt.”

Eren laughs ruefully.  “Right again, ‘Kasa.  I’ll see you tonight?”

She smiles and nods curtly.  “I’ll see you tonight, Eren.  Now go, scurry off.  We’ve got plenty of things to do to prepare.”

* * *

 

Jean’s eyes follow the Night Fury into the clouds and linger on the spot he disappears, a tiny smile pulling the corners of his lips up.  There is unusual softness in his eyes. 

“So, who the hell is Marco?” Krista asks, her voice a tad terse. 

Jean snaps his head around guiltily, like a child that’d been caught doing wrong.  “He’s… it’s complicated.”

“We’ve got time,” she says, turning on heel and gesturing for Jean to follow her back to her trading post.  “Explain him.  Explain his Night Fury.  Explain why you’re hanging on his every word.”

Because Jean _had_ , she’d _seen_ him.  His unusually soft eyes focused so intently on Marco whenever the freckled man’s back was turned, and sometimes when it wasn’t.  Hanging over his shoulder, watching Krista talk to him jealously, smiling sweetly at Marco’s booming laughter. 

For whatever reason, though, now he’s hesitant.  He picks at his gloves nervously, refusing to meet her gaze. 

“Stop messing with those,” Krista fusses.  “You bought that leather from me, I know how expensive they are.”

“I’m not sure what business Marco is to you,” he says bluntly.  There’s a fire that smolders defiantly in his eyes.  His arms cross over his chest, lips pressing into a thin line, and he glares down at Krista with a hostility she hasn’t seen in years. 

She takes a half-step backwards, spreading her hands placatingly.  “Peace, Jean, I don’t mean him any harm,” she calms, offering him her upturned palms.  “Curiosity is all that motivates me.  He seems absolutely extraordinary.”

Jean eyes her, pivoting towards her trading warehouse until it’s a sidelong glare he gives Krista.  “I’m not sure I trust you,” he hedges dubiously.

“After all this time, you don’t trust me?”  She blinks innocently.  “Come on, Jean.”  Bumping his bony side with her elbow, she walks along the dock beside him.  “I’ve kept every other secret.  Give me a little credit.”

“Marco is different,” Jean says quietly. 

Krista nods thoughtfully.  “He does have a Night Fury.  That’s nothing like the either of us have dealt with.”

“Not like that,” he insists, snapping his head around to Krista.  Urgency sparkles in his eyes, and he grits his teeth; he looks right through her though, as if he’s not truly registering her presence.  With a frustrated growl, he swings his boot at a rotting plank on the dock and tucks his chin against his chest. 

Knowing better than to comment on his aggression, Krista chews silently on her lip, at a complete loss of what to say.  In all her many years of knowing this odd, harmless hermit, she’s never known him to act anything like this. 

Jean must take her silence as a cue to elaborate, though, because as they pad down the rickety stairs of the dock, he tells her in a self-conscious voice, “I… don’t know how to act around him.  He is different.  He… makes me feel different.”

“Different how?” Krista questions, looking up at him inquisitively. 

He shrugs uncomfortably.  “It’s… difficult to explain.  I don’t feel… _at peace_ anymore.  He makes me feel different.”

“So is he chaotic?”

Jean whips his head violently from side to side, stopping in his tracks as if her words had offended him.  “Marco is anything but chaotic!” he snaps, eyes wide.  “He is good!  But… _different_.”

Krista sighs patiently.  “Jean, that doesn’t give me a lot to go on.  How is what you’re feeling different?  What _are_ you feeling, for that matter?”

This, he ponders on, for he falls silent again.  Eyes fixed thoughtfully on the rise and fall of his feet, he follows after Krista along the trail circumjacent to the waterside.  She rejoices mentally at the return of the silence of everything but the ocean lapping at the shore and the breeze through the trees.  Another thought of perhaps being too influenced by Jean and her own seclusion passes through her mind, but she brushes it aside. 

Krista’s never minded quiet. 

Her hermitage isn’t much, to be honest.  A small house with a smaller garden and a smaller still bed, it’d be easy to overlook the peeling lavender and white paint and the quaint open windows from the water or air.  Hidden further back in the ferns is her warehouse.  There is where she’ll be taking Jean.  She keeps all her items of trade in that shed, all of what she reaps from the island’s bountiful resources and everything she gathers at the market for Jean. 

Theirs is a simple arrangement.  Jean taught her how to be independent, how to hunt and butcher and cook creatures.  He taught her how to watch for storms and how to navigate the seas.  In return, she showed him the little she knew about medicinal herbs and leatherworking and sewing.  He’d taken to sewing quite happily. 

Now, she provides him with what little he asks of her from the busier floating market off the shore of an island a few miles southeast of here in return for protection and comradeship.  Sometimes, he’ll bring pearls or molted dragon scales to trade with her, pretty things of great value.  Judging by the clink of the purse on his belt, he’s brought something to trade now. 

Only a few yards from the shed, Jean stops and blurts out, “He makes me feel alive.”

Krista, having forgotten her own question, turns to him in utmost surprise.  “What?”

“Marco.”  He squirms awkwardly.  “It’s… different.  I feel curious and unsatisfied and filled with wonder again.  It’s… good and bad.  Mostly good, I think,” he says, a tad softer than the rest of his words. 

“Did you not feel alive before?” she asks in surprise. 

He hums and cocks his head to one side in his owlish manner.  “Yes and no.  It was… _simple_.  Life was _simple._ The world as I knew it was _simple._ I felt very _simple_.  He… is complex.” 

“And that makes you feel good?” Krista asks hesitantly. 

“Yes.”  Jean smiles, but then frowns again.  “I think.  Perhaps.  When I upset him by accident, I feel bad.  I have a new need for… social.  Socialness?  I don’t know.”  He frowns deeper.  “That worries me.”

“Why does that worry you?”

“Because…”  He shrugs helplessly, holding both his arms out.  “Now, I feel good.  Very good.  He smiles.  He’s happy.  Me, too, actually.” 

Jean smiles a bit to himself, as if struck giddy with this realization. 

“But?” Krista prompts. 

“But…”   Jean’s smile drops.  “He’s… not going to stay forever.  When he leaves, he’ll leave me…  I won’t be happy alone.  That’s how it’s different.”

“Oh… _oh_ , Jean.”

Her heart yanks in her chest.  Stumbling over her own feet, Krista slams into Jean, wrapping her arms tightly around him.  After his initial shock, he loops his arms around her shoulders in return, hugging her tightly.  He shivers against her fingertips, so slightly it’d be impossible to notice unless she was quite so close to him. 

“I don’t… understand it,” Jean whispers, tucking his face into Krista’s hair.  “I don’t see how you can do this social thing _all the time._ ”

“It gets easier,” she soothes, rubbing her hands along his back. 

He squirms away from her hug, backpedalling a few nervous steps.  “I’m not sure I want it to.  I don’t like this.  _Shit._   This… I never _wanted_ …”

She extends a hand towards him, and he steps backwards with a violent jolt.  But Jean doesn’t truly seem to see her – his eyes are distant and trained towards the ground, glistening with ghosts of his past.  He runs trembling hands nervously through his hair. 

“This is… This is why I left!  Fuck, I – I _can’t_ , Krista.  I can’t do this.  Marco is… I need him to leave.  I need him to _go!_   I want it back, dammit!”

Krista blinks in confusion.  “Back?  Back to normal?  You want Marco to leave?”

“He complicated things,” Jean snaps, fixing her with a fierce glare. “Better now.  Before I fuck it up.  He needs to _leave,_ needs to go home…”

“…You’re afraid of fucking it up?”  Her brow furrows.  “Why?  Why do you think you’re going to fuck it up?”

“Because I do.”  He grinds his teeth and kicks viciously at a stray pebble.  “Marco needs to leave before I can fuck it up.  Shit.  Fuck.  He’s gonna bring the village, Krista.  They’re all gonna know where I am.”

“The village?”

“ _The_ village, _his_ village, _my old tribe_!” Jean snaps. 

“I don’t think Marco would do that if you didn’t want him to…  And what’s so wrong about the village?”

Jean growls ferociously in response, like he’s nothing more than one of the dragons he babysits.  His eyes gleam, and his hands curl into fists by his sides.  Krista’s heartbeat stutters. 

But then the tension leaves his body with one giant sigh.  His shoulders slump and his head hangs.  Eyes filled with anxiety and shame turn down to stare at his feet.  Jean simply looks very, very weary. 

“I am afraid,” he says quietly.  “I am afraid I will drive Marco away.  Or that he will drag me back to Berk.  Because I…”  He smiles a watery smile.  “I’m happy here, I think.  I’m happy with _him_ here.”

He ducks his head against his chest.  A blush spreads over his cheeks from the admission, like it’d slipped out. 

“Hey, Jean, it’s…”  She softly touches his elbow.  “It’s going to be okay.”

Grunting, he leans into her hand.  His eyes squeeze shut, closing the storm of emotion behind them. 

“I promise you, Jean, it’s going to be okay.  You’ll be okay.  Marco won’t hurt you.” 

He sighs heavily.  For a few long minutes, they stand in silence, Krista’s eyes searching his face.  Slowly, the tension seeps out of his expression, and his knitted eyebrows relax.  Another heavy sigh shudders through him, and his eyes peek open. 

“I can’t believe I freaked out over that,” he murmurs scornfully.  “I’m an idiot.”

Krista smiles, recognizing Jean’s veiled apology.  She wraps her arms around him forgivingly, and feels the tension leave his shoulders.  Sighing, he hugs her back again, clutching her all the more tightly.  Her face presses up against his cool armor. 

Jean smells pungently of sweat, dirt, and a bit like lizard.  A small giggle escapes her – she’s noticed his odor before, of course, but she’s always figured that it doesn’t matter enough to bring it up to him.  Now, she thinks he might like to know about it.   

Offended by her laughter, he steps backwards and eyes her suspiciously.  Krista offers him nothing but an all-too-innocuous smile.  A troubled look flashes over his expression. 

“What is it?” he mumbles, self-consciously glancing down at his teal armor.  “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Krista says ever-so-sweetly.  “I just think I might need to add a bit of male fragrance to the barter this time.  Or maybe some scented soap.  What do you say?”

The color drains from his face.  “Oh.  Okay.  I’ve got… Night Fury scales to trade for it?  From Orochi?”

“Done deal.”  Krista chuckles merrily at his mortified expression.  “You’ll have to decide if you like sandalwood or pine musk more.”

He smiles wanly.  “Thank you, Krista.”

“Hey, it’s what I’m here for.”  She nudges her elbow against him.  “ _Although,_ I’m getting very interested in the story behind how you got stuck nursing from-your-tribe Marco back to health.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to tell you,” he hums, smiling.

“Good.  Don’t spare a single detail.”

* * *

 

Just as Eren had predicted, the village is wilted.

It’d hit like all grief does, in that slow, creeping manner it has, lodging itself in your stomach, a lump in your throat that gets larger every time you swallow it down.  Every time you think that perhaps, the grief is gone for good this time, it springs like a waiting panther. 

In some, it’d been apparent.  Ymir, vehemently denying his death, is the most obvious suspect.  His students, current and former, too.  Armin can’t recall the last time he’s seen Thomas smile. 

Others, he’s found, others that originally stood like proud, stone cliffs, letting the waves batter against them but never faltering, are eroding away. 

Most people never knew how much they value a smile or the sound of Marco’s booming laugh echoing down streets.  People never thought about it.  They’d taken the dollop of sunshine he brought into their lives for granted, and on an island as dark and gloomy as Berk, it’s a dangerous thing to do. 

The merchants in their stalls snap at everyone they come across.  The baker and the baker’s dragon snarls at everyone who enters their shop.  Warriors sit around fires and skulk with sunken eyes.  The bard sits in the tavern and glumly plucks at his lute’s strings. 

Armin’s not sure how many of them have traced the source of the sudden unhappiness back to Marco’s death, but some have.  Marco’s mother, for instance.  His heart swells with sympathy. 

At first, she’d tried to fill the void she’d known would come with her own smiles.  She’d tried to laugh, to sing, to clap others on their back as her son had – but she’d done so in the few days after his alleged passing.  People dismissed her.  Said they needed time to grieve.  That there would be other times for laughing. 

And so lovely Ms. Bodt’s cheer had become brittle.  Like a thin paper mask, peeling at the corners, a painted-on smile.  In her eyes, you can see her crumbling away. 

He’s surprised that Eren was one that knew Marco’s impact.  From the very start, Eren had been afraid.  He’d demanded and pressed for Marco’s return since the moment they left him behind.  Because he’d _known_ – he’d known what Marco did to the Tribe, he was afraid of what would happen when the sun went away.  He was right to be afraid.  

Even Armin hadn’t seen it.  And that troubles him slightly.  But mostly, there’s only an affectionate glow of pride flickering in his chest for his friend. 

For all his bluster, Eren has such a massive heart. 

Armin is jarred from his reverie as three sopping wet Vikings round the corner from the alley.  His stride falters as he recognizes the trio as bullies from his childhood.  The mood is so poor he doesn’t quite trust them. 

Bowing his head, he walks quicker past them.  Their eyes are grey and cold, glittering in sunken holes – their hungry gazes sting.  Like starving wolves, they watch his every move. 

There is no entertainment anymore.  No bards singing, no jolly dancing, nothing for their pithy minds to find amusement in, amusement that they so desperately crave.  Entertainment is distraction from the doleful truths of their own miserable lives.  If they can’t find some source of laughter, they’ll seek it out themselves before long.  Armin’s heart sings with fear. 

 _This unhappiness is caused by one man._ Sleazy, thin-lipped smiles cut like knife-wounds across their pale faces.  _Are we so dependent on Marco that we fall to ruin the moment he disappears?_

He ducks his head as the boys walk past him, looking anywhere but their faces.  His heart hammers in his ears at their hissing whispers, a soft peal of laughter – his face flushes, he’s so _afraid_ –

“Armin!”  A hand so heavy one of his knees buckle lands on his shoulder.  From the shadow of a house alongside the road, Ymir slinks, grinning more sleazily than the trio ever could. 

Armin glances behind him.  Pale-faced, the bullies are hoofing it down the street, casting nervous glances towards Ymir.  Something in him thrums with satisfaction. 

“Hey, Ymir, how are you holding up?” he asks, turning around to smile up at her. 

She harrumphs – the rosiness of her freckled cheeks would betray her inebriation if her swaying already haven’t.  “Bloody awful, Armin.  Bu’ I think ya know that.  Dontcha?”

Armin purses his lips.  “Well –”

“You wi’ those eyes, always seein’,” she exaggerates with a flamboyant twist of her hand.  “Seein’ everything, ain’t they?  Ya see more than I do, ‘at’s for sure.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Armin chuckles. 

“Nah, but it’s true!” she enthuses.  “Ya – ya’re really smart, Armin.  Got lotsa… lotsa brain juices.  Swirling up in there.”

She pats his head borderline-gingerly with a sage nod. 

“Thank you, Ymir,” he says, amused.  “Do you need any help getting home?”

“Nah.”  She grins toothily.  “Don’t need nothin’ but company.  Can ya do that, ya smart blonde… smart blonde _gnome_?”

“Gnome?” Armin repeats, guiding her by her elbow down the road. 

“Ya.”  Ymir blinks a few times up at the sky.  “Did I ever tell ya… the first time I got drunk?  Truly hammered?”

“No, you haven’t, Ymir.  I don’t think we’ve ever really talked before.”

She gasps, scandalized.  “Bloody hell, what a fuckin’ sin!  I’m a fuckin’ terrible person, fo’ nevah speakin’ to such a… lovely gnome like ya…  Well, what I’m tryin’ tah say is this –”

Leaning heavily against him, she flails her hand in front of her. 

“First time I got hammered, was with Marco.  Small lil’ thing then, still getting used tah havin’ one arm – remember?  I came back to this shitty lil’ island because of him, right?”

“I remember.”

“Ya.  Well, ya see, he and I, we smuggled us some good booze.  Can’t ‘member what the fuckin’ labels said, but it was _good shit._   Armin.  Armin, loo’ at me.”  She meets his gaze intensely, nodding slowly.  “ _Good.  Goooood shit._ ”

“I get the point, Ymir.”

“Yeah, well, freckles an’ I got absolutely fuckin’ _wasted_.  Was _amazing._   We were running around like fuckin’ maniacs through the woo’s, keepin’ ‘way from the town, because even when we didn’t know up from down we knew if his ma found us we’d be flayed.  Ya see, were were a mite bit young tah be drinking then.”

Armin laughs.  “I think I remember the end to this story, Ymir.”

“Shhhh, no fucking spoilers, fucking spoilsport,” she grumbles.  “An’way, we got this great idea – it was _such_ a great idea.  We were gonna jump off of’the big cliff beside the Dragon Academy.”

His jaw drops.  “ _In what way was that a –_ “

“Hush, fuckin’ Odin, you’re loud,” she groans.  “That’s not the good idea.  The good idea was ‘is – see, if we were wearing clothes, ever’un would know when we got wet.  They’d know we’d jumped.  So instead o’ risking being caught, Marco and I got nakey and stashed our clothes in a bog.  Never did find ‘em ever again.

“So there he and I were, buck naked, on the edge o’ the cliff.  No second thoughts or nothin’.  Kinda walked right up and –”  She clicks her tongue and mimes a person jumping off a cliff with one of her hands, whistling as it falls back by her side.  “But see, here’s where Marco became a fuckin’ cheater.

“That fuckin’ dragon o’ his snatched him outta the air.  One moment he was screaming next ta me, and then the dragon’s whistle and then he was gone.  I hit the water and _fuckin’ hell it was cold,_ I nearly _died_ Armin, it was fuckin’ awful.  Meanwhile, Marco’s dragon carries him back home and dumps him on his mumma’s doorstep, naked as a jay bird and snorin’ like a Gronckle wi’ a cold.”

“Oh, poor Marco,” Armin whispers, stifling giggles. 

“Right, see?”  Ymir flashes him a big, wide smile.  “I don’t think he could sit right for weeks after what his mum did tah his backside.  Can’t say we didn’t deserve it.  But, what I’m saying – it’s ‘cause – I’ve got a reason here.  Why was I telling ya this?”

Her entire face wrinkles up with an expression of intense concentration. 

“I’m not sure, Ymir,” Armin says.  “I’m honestly as baffled as you are.”

“Ah!”  She slams her hand back down on his shoulder.  “See, I ‘member.  Every time since then, I’ve always only gotten hammered with Freckles.  Buzzed, all the time.  Tipsy, hell fuckin’ yes.  But Marco – see, he’s the only one I ever did trust tah get drunk around.”  Ymir swings her face around until they’re staring eye to eye.  “How many other people ya think woulda jumped off that cliff wi’ scary old Ymir, naked an’ all?”

“Not many?” Armin guesses. 

“Right.”  She nods approvingly.  “Smart.  Such smart eyes.”

“But, Ymir –”  His eyebrows knit together in confusion.  “I mean, you’re not hammered right now, but… you’re not far from it.  What’re you saying?”

“What I’m saying, what I’m saying _is –_ dammit, I’m saying –”  Her shoulders slump.  “Ah, shit, I’m saying I’m lonely, ya little shit.”

“Oh.”  His heart tugs painfully.  “Oh, Ymir, I’m sorry.”

“See wi’ those eyes o’ yours an’ see that I ain’t here for your pity.”  She clenches his shoulder tightly between her powerful fingers, and in her eyes, a sharpness pierces through the drunken haze, a glimmer like an ember burning back to life. 

“What I’m sayin’ is this, boy,” she growls lowly.  “Wha’eva you ‘nd that Eren kid plan on doin’ – I’m in.  I ain’t getting drunk without my boy by my side again, ya hear?”

Armin hesitantly lies his hand over hers and squeezes softly.  “Thank you, Ymir.  I’m glad to hear that you’ll help.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” she rumbles, low and throaty, like a dragon’s warning growl before a brilliant burst of flame.  The coals of her anger smolder brighter now, blazing through the fog of intoxication.  With jaw set and shoulders squared, lips peeled back in a snarl, Armin doesn’t doubt it for a second.

Glancing down at him, she adds in perhaps a softer tone, “I ain’t gonna do it right now, though.  Dontcha worry ‘bout that.  But I got friends, ‘nd connections, ‘nd all that shit.”

“What sorts of friends?” Armin asks, leaning forward eagerly. 

“All sorts.”  She waves a hand dismissively.  “We’ll talk later, lil gnome.  Now – now I think imma sleep.  Eh?”

Armin smiles widely at her.  “I think that’s a good idea,” he agrees, letting her slump against the doorway of the untidy little shack beside her forge.  “Talk later?”

“O’ course.”  Ymir smiles wolfishly.  “You and I, we’ll get Marco back.  I’ll pry him from the cold, dead hands of Odin himself if I haf’ tah.  Just you wait.”

* * *

 

The bard plucks lamely at his instrument.  His musician fingers travel up and down the lute’s neck, playing chords and various intros to different cheery tunes, but whenever a crowd would’ve launched into a cheerily-sung chorus, he drops off with a despondent sigh. 

His glum, twangy music reflects the attitude of Berk.  Eren takes a grim swig from his mug of ale and glances around the dingy tavern.  On a good night of drinking, the little room is filled with life, the hearth roaring.  The old floorboards are worn from years of lively dancing. 

If he closes his eyes, he can almost see them all – Sasha giggling from behind the counter, Connie scurrying in the corners and carrying out her mischief, Mikasa with mountains of hardy Vikings thinking they could outdrink her snoring all around her seat.  The chief would laugh and tap his mug against the table as Ymir swept Marco up into a hearty jig, and maybe even Levi would crack a small smile when she dipped him in time with the music. 

Now the air is stale.  It’s gloomy.  The memories of the happiness shared here are smothering to all who enter, so of course it’s avoided. 

Sasha frowns as she cleans out the glasses with a dirty cloth.  Her lapdog, Connie, stokes the dying hearth.  Ymir chucks back another long swig of whatever rat poison she ordered – scowling, she tosses it aside with a grumble and bows her head against the counter.  A second later, she rises and slinks out through the door.  Connie’s fire shivers at the cold air from outside. 

The bard sighs heavily again.  Ymir is usually one of his best customers, being very liberal with coin after a mead or two.  Eren feels bad for him.  It’s hard to encourage happiness when there simply is none to be found. 

He jumps as the glass Sasha had been cleaning thuds against the counter.  Throwing the towel over her shoulder, she forces a smile. 

“Can I get you another one?” she says, gesturing towards his nearly-empty mug. 

“Nah, I think I better not.”  Eren sighs heavily.  “Have to exercise Titan later or he’ll bite my fucking head off.”

“Good.”  She nods approvingly.  “Don’t drink and fly.”

“Sasha, you drink and fly all the fucking time,” Connie sighs in exasperation from across the room. 

“You’re the designated rider.” 

“Am not.” 

“Are too.”

“You’re always _both_ drunk as skunks,” the bard drawls with another world-weary sigh. 

“Hah.”

“Don’t ‘hah’ me, baldie.”

Their banter has all the wit of their usual escapades, but there’s not much heart in it.  Dull-eyed, Sasha picks up the mug she’d been cleaning earlier, inspects it, and cleans it again. 

Eren can’t bear it.  Armin told him, he told him to keep it quiet… just Ymir and Mikasa for now, assets… but… 

He glances over the rim of his glass at Sasha.  _They could really use some hope right now._

Decisively, Eren slams the mug down heavily on the counter.  Sasha startles from the noise, her eyes blowing wide. 

“He’s not dead,” he says stubbornly, fixing her with a defiant glare.  “Marco ain’t dead, Sash.”

Recovering from her surprise, she sighs and shakes her head.  “You don’t know that, Eren.”

“It’s been too long,” Connie agrees quietly.  “Even you can’t deny that it looks real bad.”

“So you’re just going to give up hope?!”  Eren grunts in disgust.  “If it was any one of us, Marco would be scouring the open oceans and you know it!”

Connie stands up angrily.  “Look, Eren, we don’t wanna believe it any more than you do!  We’re just looking at it honestly – there’s no way that boy’s still out there.”

“Dragonshit!” Eren throws his hands up.  “I’m calling dragonshit on that, Connie!”

“I’m not denyin’ it like you are!” Connie snarls, eyes flashing.  “Marco is _dead,_ Eren!  He’s dead!  And wishin’ him back ain’t gonna do nothing!”

“I’m denying?!”  Eren whirls around furiously.  “Look at you!  You’re too fucking afraid of getting your hopes up that you won’t even fucking try!”

“Shut up!” Connie hisses.  “Accept it!  Marco’s dead!”

“You don’t know that!  You’re just accepting it because it’s the easy way out!  You’ve already accepted your failure in saving him!  Dragonshit, dragonshit, dragonshit!”

“EREN, CONNIE, ENOUGH!” Sasha bellows, slamming her mug down on the counter.  “I will kick both of you out if you don’t make up right now!”

Connie whines.  “Sash –”

“Don’t ‘Sash’ me,” she says fiercely.  “You’re picking a fight and you know it.  There are better people’s brains to bash in and you know it.”

The bard’s eyes flick uncertainly between the two of them.  They study each other reluctantly, both of their bodies still taut with rage.  Eren’s lips are still pulled up in an animal snarl, and Connie holds the poker in his right hand like a weapon.  But with another fierce growl from Sasha, he reluctantly drops it back by the fire. 

“Sorry for pickin’ a fight, but I still think you’re stupid,” Connie grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Eren shakes his head, frustrated.  “Armin believes me, Ymir believes me, even Mikasa – why don’t you to even wanna hope?”

“Wait, what?”  Sasha vaults over the bar and yanks on Eren’s arm.  “What’re you talking about?”

“Ow, Sash, lemme go!”

“Not until you tell us what you meant by that,” Connie insists, the stony mask that’d sheathed his grief replaced by a sparkle of interest.  “What’s going on, Eren?”

“Is the gang getting back together again?” Sasha urges, a hopeful grin spreading over her face. 

“Are we going after Marco?” Connie demands, grabbing Eren’s other arm with a vise-like grip. 

“Can we bring as many weapons as we want?” she gushes. 

“Grenades?” he suggests hopefully. 

“Ooooo, definitely grenades!”

Eren casts a glance towards the now-quiet bard, subtly listening over the absentminded plucking of the lute’s strings.  His frown grows deeper as he realizes _yes,_ perhaps it could’ve been a bad idea to tell them now.  Maybe Armin was right.  But now…

Sasha’s eyes sparkle.  Connie’s smile stretches from ear to ear.  They glance from him to each other, rambling about the weapons they’ll pack if, indeed, a secret mission is launched.  They look _happy._   Hopeful. 

“Listen, when your shifts are done, go talk to Armin for more, alright?”  Eren downs the rest of his ale with a single swig, resting it on the counter once more.  “And don’t… don’t give up on Marco.  There’s hope for him, okay?”

“I’m so excited,” Sasha whispers, giddily wringing her hands together.  “Last time we got the gang together, shit went down!”

Connie rolls his eyes in exasperation.  “You mean, the Screaming Death?”

“Oh!”  She blinks a few times.  “Oh, yeah, I guess… I was talking about the rabid Death Song, remember?”

Eren snorts and turns his back as they chatter excitedly.  He can’t help but think as he opens the door that perhaps, the bar sounds a little bit livelier with their white noise of chatter.  The bard strums a bit happier on their instrument. 

The Berk air is cold on his cheeks.  His breath steams in front of his face, coiling like the smoke of a dragon.  As the door swings shut, the sweet music of the bard’s lute launching into the chorus of a ballad slips through, joined by two merry voices.

* * *

 

It hovers on the horizon like a distant mirage. 

Fever dream after fever dream, nothing but the pitch black sea and sometimes an equally black sky.  Cold sweats and sweltering shivers, the taste of salt and copper on chapped, bleeding lips.  Arms like lead, head like feathers.  The body tucked against his, or his body tucked against its. 

These things all change.  Vision, taste, his own feeling, his own perception of the world around him – unreliable.  He’s learned this. 

But that outcropping, like the neck of a Scauldron or a tortoise’s shell, stays still on the horizon.  Perhaps its only change is its size – it seems to be getting larger. 

Suspiciously, Bertholdt keeps an eye on it.  It gets larger and larger as the ice beneath becomes slicker and slicker.  Melting between his fingers, wet and cold, seeping into his clothing.  Their little floe is melting out from beneath them, and it won’t be long before it disappears entirely. 

The last thing Reiner needs is to have the ice melt from beneath him.  Sticky, congealed blood still clumps around the edges of the slash across his forehead, but his face only grows paler and paler.  If they had to swim, Reiner wouldn’t be able to.  The thought frightens him.  He clutches Reiner tight but it melts and melts all the same.  And the outcropping grows closer and closer. 

Eventually, it grows too close to ignore. 

“Bert…” Reiner croaks, tipping his head up. 

Roused from his stupor staring out at the ocean, Bertholdt turns and squints at the distant mountain – all jagged, black cliffs, the sea spray spitting up like reaching claws with every enormous wave.  Grey outcrops stand like towers on one side of the island, a labyrinth of nooks and crannies, and on the other, a slumping village with sad, slouching gables and dim fires. 

“Bert,” Reiner repeats, stronger this time.  He tries to sit up, but Bertholdt wraps an arm around him to keep him rooted. 

“Is that…?”  Bertholdt doesn’t dare say the words aloud, as if to speak of it would make it vanish like a mirage.  His vision quivers and swirls, and though he blinks furiously, he can’t get it stop.  Heart hammering, sparks of hope alighting and dancing in his heart, Bertholdt turns to Reiner. 

Reiner had already been looking up at him.  Dried blood streaks down his cheeks, across his temples.  It flakes in his eyebrows, cakes in his hairline, but beneath the blood, his eyes twinkle. 

“An island, Bert,” Reiner says hoarsely.  “Bert, that’s an island.”

He squints up at the horizon, heart fluttering like a nervous butterfly.  “Is it?”

“Yes, Bert, it is,” Reiner laughs.  He props himself up on his hands and nearly slips off the ice.  Hissing, Bertholdt wraps himself further around Reiner, anchoring him to the glacier. 

“Careful!” Bertholdt whispers, wrapping his numb arms around Reiner’s chest.  He swallows and chooses to ignore the grooves of his companion’s ribs, so easily noticeable through his clothing. 

“’M sorry,” Reiner says, squirming in Bertholdt’s lap, “but it’s an island, Bertl.  If we swim we can make it, Bertholdt.”

“Can we?” he says dubiously. 

“Anything’s better than waiting for the iceberg to melt out from under us.”  Reiner’s hand finds Bertholdt’s and laces their fingers together.  “Bertl, this could be our only chance.”

“But…”  He glances hesitantly towards the sad, slumping village, the gloomy mist drooping over it as if a veil of misery hangs over the whole island.  “What if the people…?”

“It’s a chance.”  Reiner tugs at Bertholdt’s arm.  “We’re going to die if we don’t take it, Bertl.” 

For a moment longer, Bertholdt hesitates – sweat springs up against his forehead, his heart pumps with quivering heartbeats.  Slowly, very slowly, he nods and squeezes Reiner’s hand nervously. 

“Let’s do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that wasn't too long a wait for anyone - I haven't had quite as long to comb through and straighten out the kinks in this chapter, so if you see something wrong, don't hesitate to correct me!
> 
> You all are so lovely in the comments. Thank you again. 
> 
> Also, new developments - there's a tag now on tumblr ([fic: iwsiwf](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/fic:-iwsiwf)). It's not real busy at the moment but I figured I might as well put it up. 
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Skrill](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Skrill)  
> -[Stormcutter](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Stormcutter)
> 
> As always, if you have any questions relating to dragons or the universe, I'll be happy to answer them.


	8. Forbidden Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Lost](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XUClIslXKZo) in skies of powdered gold  
>  Caught in clouds of silver ropes  
> Showered by empty hopes  
> As I tumble down, falling fast to the ground

By the time we set off from Krista’s island, the sky has exploded into the thousand shades of early sunset.  Pink light cascades through the tufts of Jean’s hair.  Gold gleams off Orochi’s proud black wings.  As always, everything is so much more beautiful in the sky.

He says nothing as we rise higher above the feathery clouds.  The silence is as tranquil as a sheet of glass, and I don’t expect him to break it.  I have no qualms with that.  With Jean, I’ve learned the value of these quiet moments. 

However, after a few long minutes of beholding the brilliantly orange and white spires of clouds without a word, he sweeps closely beside me. 

I look over in surprise to find him staring back.  When I meet his eyes, a small smile graces his face. 

“What did you think of Krista?” he shouts, voice muffled by the icy gales tearing around us. 

“Krista?” I bark over the wind.  A grin spreads over my face.  “She’s a sweetheart!  Tougher than she seems, but a bit of a daisy-picker.”

He nods curtly.  “Good job.  Spot on.”

“Her accent – where’s she from?” I call, cocking my head.  “It’s not one I’ve ever heard before.  Pretty, though!  I like it!”

Jean shrugs.  “Some southern country.  She – she has a royal lineage.  She ran from her titles and came all the way up here.”

“No shit, really?”

He nods again.  “We met when I helped smuggle her up here.  She’s still got a bounty on her head.  Don’t tell anyone!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I laugh, sparing to mention the dearth of people to tell.  “I hope she’s happy here!  I’ll have to invite her formally to Berk – I know my mother would just love her!”

“She will be happy to hear you think highly of her.”  To my ears, it sounds like Jean himself is pleased as well.  It could be an illusion of the wind, but when I glance over, he looks it too –

The wind shoves his hair out of his eyes.  They sparkle like gold coins in the lovely light.  A broad smile is spread over his face, and his expression is in equal parts careless and content.  _Happy is a good look on him_. 

Orochi grumbles incredulously, and I realize I’m staring.  Blushing, I meet the one eye that’d swiveled around to glare at me.  I grin apologetically.  Sighing heavily, he rolls his eyes and shakes his head with disgust. 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” I chastise hushedly.  I clap a hand against his neck. 

He gurgles condescendingly, ears flapping with a dubious twitch. 

Glancing nervously towards Jean, I hiss, “Nothing like that, you useless reptile.  He’s a friend.  Just a friend.”

He snorts and laughs gratingly, throwing his head back. 

“You’re embarrassing me,” I whine, cheeks flushing.  He grunts unapologetically – I can hear the smug grin in it.

My gazes lifts to the horizon and lingers there.  Surely, that’s all Jean is.  An odd friend; modest companionship; mutual respect.  Even if there was prospect for more, he prefers the loneliness – or not loneliness, really, more like the _silence._   However peaceful it is, I could never enjoy such simplicity. 

The rough and tumble bustle of soggy Berk is where my heart remains.  This, I am sure.  I mean, I do like this – _quiet._   The serenity.  I like being with Jean, and I love this wonderful world he lives in.  But Berk… it’s my home.  I’d never leave it behind.  Never.  No matter how blissful this is. 

Troubled, I look down at my hand, rested on Orochi’s back.  _But he seems so much happier here…_

Suddenly, Jean becomes a blur of motion in the corner of my eye.  I jerk backwards as something whirls towards me.  Cold fingertips sweep at the back of my neck, and my spine goes ramrod straight.  Jean whispers my name into my ear, electric excitement in his voice.  And then, with a brush of the wind, the cold fingertips at my neck and his voice both vanish. 

I whip my head around, perturbed.  Nothing sits behind me, nothing fills the air.  When I turn to Eydis, her broad neck is empty of its rider, her yellow eyes amused.   

“Jean?!” 

There is no response but silence. 

The wind whistles in my ears.  The beats of Orochi’s wings seem louder than ever.  So do Eydis’.  My breathing rattles in my lungs, growing steadily louder and quicker as I turn this way and that, until –

 _Jean_.

His laughter echoes from beneath the heavy blankets of clouds.  Sitting up in the saddle, I try to catch a glimpse of him through the patches in the quilt.  Bold colors flash beyond the white, too fast to recognize.  A high dragon’s keen sounds from beneath us – abruptly, the clouds fall away and a flock of dragons erupt from below. 

Their affronting reds and greens and blues shock the pastel heavens, and their noisy jubilance claims the skies.  They screech and pinwheel wildly midair, stretching out their talons to snatch at the puffs of clouds.  And leaping from creature to creature, running across their wingspans, tumbling like a child through the sky –

_Is Jean._

“Marco!” he laughs.  I gawk as his nimble feet carry him a dragon wing held up by the buffeting wind. 

“How on Earth…?” I whisper hoarsely. 

The flock of dragons converge around us.  They greet Orochi and Eydis with cheerful screeching and grunting and head-bobbing.  Jean dances lithely across their backs, as graceful as a dragon himself. 

And it _is_ a dance – the more I watch, the more certain I am.  He skips across their wings with long, balanced strides, only to fling his body across the open air between them.  Somehow, he always lands on another dragon, but my heart leaps to my throat with every jump. 

His every move is a dance between life and death.  Each and every step takes my breath away. 

He hurls himself off the wings of a Nadder in front of us, free-falling in air before just barely catching the talons of a Hideous Zippleback in both hands.  His body swings like a tassel as he climbs up its side.  Not even seeming winded, he pulls himself effortlessly onto the dragon’s back.  Its heads screech at their new rider but make no move to unseat him. 

Jean throws a smug glance backwards at us.  Cheeks flushing, I snap my mouth shut.  He throws his head back in a lovely laugh that doesn’t quite reach me over the wind. 

Sitting up in his seat, Jean nudges his new dragon towards.  The Zippleback begrudgingly veers its path in front of ours.  Jean swings his haughty grin around, but his expression is strangely soft as he stares down at me.  His eyes shine gold and his tousled hair sticks up a thousand different directions. 

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful. 

Jean whips back around to the front.  Without further preamble, he somersaults fluidly down the dragon’s spine and flies right off its tail end.  My mouth opens in surprise.  A second later, he smacks ungracefully into my chest. 

The breath knocks painfully out of my lungs.  I let out a low, painful wheeze into Jean’s ear.  Orochi grunts at the unexpected weight.

He scrambles to gain his balance, settling his legs around Orochi’s neck.  His back presses flush against my chest, heaving to reclaim stolen air.  Almost instinctively, my hand winds around his hip and plants firmly by his thigh, keeping him rooted before he can dance away. 

“You’re amazing,” I say hoarsely, my voice still mostly gone.  Jean jerks his head back.  His eyes widen and pretty color rushes to his cheeks.  He swallows nervously, but doesn’t flinch away again. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” I muse quietly, tilting my head to one side.  “You look like you’re dancing.  Dancing with the dragons.”

“Taught myself,” he breathes so softly the wind threatens to snatch his precious words from me. 

“That’s incredible.”  I wrap my arm a little further around him.  “You’re so graceful.  I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He pokes my arm and smiles.  “Let me show you how,” he murmurs silkily.  For a moment, he seems to draw closer, his eyes so tantalizingly near, his lips…

And then, Jean falls. 

He slips off sideways of Orochi, tearing a panicked gasp from me.  He plummets towards the roiling ocean, red cloak fluttering behind him like a tattered flag.   

With a guttural roar, Eydis tucks her wings and dives.  Outstretching a single talon, she snatches him from his plummet, jerking his body like a ragdoll. 

He dangles limply for a moment, and my heart stops. 

It restarts at the delighted peal of Jean’s laughter.  I breathe a heavy, relieved sigh against Orochi’s neck.  I don’t take my eyes off of Jean until Eydis coasts back to our level. 

Jean hangs by his foot from her great talons like meat in a butcher’s kitchen, shit-eating grin spread wide across his face as he soars past.  Turning to face him, I make an exaggerated show of rolling my eyes.  He laughs at me.  The wrinkle at the corners of his eyes brings warmth to my chest.

Squirming, Jean reaches for Eydis’ claw.  With the way he effortlessly curls upwards and grabs it so painlessly, it’s hard not to imagine the muscles at work beneath his armor. 

_Anyone would.  Really._

His legs swing down from her grip, and he scrambles up her leg like a squirrel.  Jean disappears behind her wings, then reappears behind her magnificent crest. 

Our gazes meet, and he smiles brighter than the sun.  “Watch me!”

He sits with his legs thrown awkwardly over Eydis’ broad neck.  With exaggerated slowness, he shifts his weight until both of his knees are knelt beneath him, his hands braced against her.  His cape snaps behind him, his hair blowing in the wind.  A blissful smile spread over his face, Jean glances at me expectantly. 

“Wha…?”  My throat closes up.  “No.  Oh, no.  No, no, no.”

“Yes!” he shouts. 

“Jean, I’ve got one arm!”

“When has that stopped you before, Marco?!”

I steal a glance towards the sea beneath, black as obsidian with slashes of white, breaking waves across its surface.  A cold stone settles in the pit of my stomach.  I shake my head firmly, stuttering out another curt refusal. 

Jean watches me intently.  The gears click methodically behind his impassive expression.  His lips part, eyebrows knit together, as if he might say something.  I stubbornly avoid his gaze, watching my curled fingers resting on Orochi’s neck. 

I’ve never been a coward before.  But memories linger in the back of my mind.  Haunting flashes of the black sea. 

Of my own blood.  Pouring, trickling, sparkling in the sun. 

The wind. 

The sky. 

The cold. 

And then the terrible impact. 

A shiver jerks down my spine. 

Jean’s feet skip over Orochi’s wings.  His cold hand lies on my bare shoulder.  Eyes search for my gaze and hold it, pulling me from my own mind.  A small, shy smile spreads over his lips. 

“You need to trust me,” he says softly.  “And your dragon.  Orochi won’t let anything happen.”

“I – I know that,” I whine, shifting uncomfortably.  “But I just – I don’t –”

“He will catch you.”  Certainty steels his words.  “Trust me.  Trust him.”

I open my mouth to protest, but one of Jean’s hands loop around my neck and pull me closer to him.  A gasp escapes me.  His eyes twinkle darkly. 

“Let me show you,” he murmurs.  His arms stiffen into a steel trap around me.  My lips part with a question, my heart hammers excitedly, my hand goes to his hip. 

Jean draws backwards, and I, caught in his embrace, go with him, his chest flush against mine.  A sly smile cuts across his face, smug with success – the only thought that goes through my mind is a resounding _oh, fuck_ of realization. 

Jean slips backwards off of Orochi’s neck. 

I, trapped in his arms, get dragged off after him. 

The wind howls. The world spins and teeters and it’s all so very, very cold.  Gasping, I fling my arm out and desperately try to grab something, anything, to keep me from the dark sea below. 

But this time, it’s different.  For every time I squirm, Jean grows steadier.  When a flailing leg kicks him away, he clutches tighter.  The wind is furiously cold and biting but Jean’s arms are warm and strong around me. 

He tucks his head against my chest.  His lips move against my skin, a thousand times more inviting than the howling winds.  In a moment of clarity, I anchor myself on him, wrapping my arm tightly around his torso. 

His hair tickles my nose.  Squeezing my eyes shut, I bury my face in the top of his head. 

Together, we fall. 

Then, with a yank at my leg and a searing pain through my calf, we stop.  Jean is ripped savagely from his arms.  The searing cold burns my skin hotter than any fire.  A gasp tears from my emptied lungs. 

Flipping his head upside down to look at me, Orochi gurgles at me in annoyance.  Clutched in his talons, I shoot him a weak grin and a thumbs up.  He harrumphs and shakes his head disdainfully. 

I jerk my head back at the sound of Jean’s laughter.  Already crouched on Eydis’ back, he grins proudly down at me. 

“Not so scary?” he says. 

“You fucking asshole!” I roar, lunging playfully at him.

He laughs merrily at my feigned punch.  “Face your fears.  You did.  Nothing bad happened.”

“That was not facing my fears!” I fume.  “You fucking shoved me off a dragon, you dick!  I’m not forgiving you for that.  Never.”

His expression flickers with unease.  “…Really?”

I break out in a grin.  “Of course I will, you goon.  Help me get back on my dragon, I want to at least give your thing a shot.”

“Okay.”  Jean’s grin is childishly beatific. 

I nearly slip twice while making the difficult scramble up Orochi’s hide.  Both time, Jean squeaks and nearly launches off Eydis, as if to catch me.  He blushes at my laughter, but he doesn’t apologize.  I don’t expect him to – I’d be nervous as well if I saw a guy trying to climb a dragon with one hand. 

When I reach his back, Orochi eyes me reproachfully.  I smile, but it only provokes a rumble of annoyance.  My attempt to land a reassuring kiss on his forehead is met with a smack of his ear flap. 

“Sassy, sassy,” I chuckle, running my hand along his neck.  Jean watches me with a smile – when I meet his gaze, it only grows broader. 

Again, he rises into a crouch, one knee braced on the broad of Eydis’ back.  This time, I copy him.  My legs tremble uncontrollably from – the strain of my weight or nerves?  I don’t know.  Orochi’s warm scales feel perfectly smooth against the palm of my hand, familiar like the hilt of a favorite sword or a tailored leather glove.  It gives me the fortitude to stay strong and steady upon him. 

Upwards we soar until our dragons are level again with the rest of the flock.  The pastel colors of the sky are dimmer now, the gold less brilliant and more the color of gentle gossamer.  The orange clouds have muted to a soft mauve.  Few stars twinkle shyly above. 

Jean begins to move again, spreading his feet wider for balance.  Holding both hands out in a gesture of balance I can’t mimic with my lopsided body, he eases himself into a stand.  I cannot decide if he’d looked better with a backdrop of pink or lavender as he is now.  His teal armor looks striking with purple, at least. 

_Focus, Marco._

Jean’s eyes snap towards me when I begin to slowly imitate him.  My chapped lips sting from the cold, wind throwing my hair into my eyes.  With a trembling hand, I rise.  Orochi’s back hasn’t seemed to quiver beneath me as much since our first few flights.  My breath escapes in ragged pants. 

I square up against the wind.  It blows me back.  Gasping, I hurl my arm out and put one foot in front of the other, like a gymnast on a beam.  Cool sweat trickles down the groove of my spine. 

Fragile as the sail of a ship, I revel in the wind’s power to send me hurling down towards the black ocean.  Strangely, I love it.  I love the winds battering against my chest, the dull, aching tremble in my calves, my heart hammering like a terrified sparrow’s, and the way I stand despite it all.  So vulnerable against the wind, but standing firm and defiant. 

I throw my head back in a thrilled howl.  The air snatches away the noise and sucks it greedily away; I’m not sure if Jean hears.  His laughter reaches my ears, though. 

“Try moving!” he calls enthusiastically.  “It’s easier when you move – harder to stay still!” 

My head whips around to face him.  “What?!”

Jean laughs again.  “Birds don’t fight the wind, Marco!  You can’t, either!”

And with that, he skips along Eydis’ wing and leaps onto the back of a Scuttleclaw, disappearing behind a cloud. 

A Snafflefang pulls up conveniently beside me.  Its wings are broad and it looks sturdy, as sturdy as a breathing contraption of leather and bones can look when held aloft by the cold, indifferent wind.  Studying me with one keen eye, it squawks a warning. 

“Ah, what the hell,” I mutter.  Ignoring Orochi’s worried bellow, I dash across his wing and kick off the edge of it. 

As it happens, even when full and taut as a sail, dragon’s wings aren’t sturdy.  My kick-off succeeds at little else than bending his wing beneath me.  An unholy yelp bursts from me and I collide sloppily against the Snafflefang’s neck. 

It screeches indignantly at my sudden intrusion, neck spines jabbing painfully into my gut.  Orochi roars back with a threat.  Somewhere, Jean cackles madly. 

“You asshole!” I holler, kicking my legs in frustration, clutching the Snafflefang for dear life.  “I’m gonna get you for that!”

“With what I saw?”  Jean appears beside me, crouched neatly on the back of a Mudraker.  He grins smugly.  “Good luck.”

“You’re on,” I snarl, clambering onto the disgruntled Snafflefang’s back.  His laughter is a challenge I can’t bear to stand down on.  Necessity is the best teacher, the traders from the south always say – at the moment, I really, _really_ need to beat Jean. 

Standing without procedure, I dash across its wings and chuck my body artlessly towards him.  This time, I land on the dragon’s back.  But it’s not without possible improvements.  I tumble forward across its wing, forced across its back by momentum.  I can either fall or charge all the way across its wingspan. 

When I leap to close the gap between this dragon and another, there is the briefest moment of timelessness, of time slowing around me and my heart filling with a lightness – I feel as if I’m floating, flying. 

My impact this time is lighter.  Instead of landing with all the finesse of a Gronckle, I mimic the gentle taps of Jean’s skipping stride.  It feels awkward, but it works.  I fall into a crouch on the Thunderclaw’s back, a proud grin spread over my face.  In the comfort of my own mind, I fancy myself looking as graceful as Jean. 

 _I’m getting the hang of this._ I puff out an excited breath.  _It’s not so hard._

Jean, of course, puts my efforts to shame.  He skips across a Windstriker’s wings and slides down the spine of a Shovelhelm, hooking his staff in the talons of a Thornridge and flinging himself back up onto Orochi’s back.  His eyes flash fierily towards me.  A trouble-making grin spreads from ear to ear. 

“Oh, is the bulky Viking done already?  You sleepy?  There there.  Not everyone’s a master like me!” 

Without deigning to respond, I race across my Thunderclaw’s wing, taking a great flying leap onto the Snifflehunch beside Orochi.  I land just as easily as before, and though it’s nothing compared to Jean, it’s enough to make his confidence waver.  My dragon’s ears perk at my closeness, glassy eyes widening happily.

“Try me,” I chuckle, cocking my head to one side. 

He sits still for a few moments, our gazes locked.  Then, with a shrill, childish shriek, he launches himself off of Orochi with a surprising lack of grace.  Laughing, I bound after him. 

“Meanie!” he hurls behind him, grappling up the spine of a Hackatoo. 

“You started it!” I trumpet, vaulting off the wings of a Deadly Nadder, only a step behind.  He dashes onto the back of a Grapple Grounder, and I follow with a bound – screeching to a halt at its far wing, realizing that there’s nowhere to go, he whirls on me like a cornered animal. 

“You’re not supposed to be good at this!” he squeaks, ducking around my outstretched arm. 

“That’s just the thing, Jean!”  I chase after him, giggling.  “I’m good at everything!”

His spritely steps carry him back to the broad neck of Eydis.  He lands first in a crouch but then curls in a ball behind her magnificent crest, back to me, hiding.  I land in comparative silence further down on her body, past her four beating wings.  Placing one foot between each of the long spikes down her back and keeping a hand tightly fastened around one at all times, I creep down her spine. 

I beam at the back of his head – he peeks out beyond her frill, scouting the area for me.  I take a great thrill in the role reversal as I sneak up behind him.  Perhaps a taste of his own medicine will keep him from stalking me like a fucking ghost. 

Crouching behind him, I put my lips behind his ear and whisper his name. 

With an unholy screech, Jean lurches sideways off of Eydis’ neck.  He tumbles down towards the sea, and half a dozen dragons swoop to retrieve him.  I throw my head back with a bellowing laugh, clutching at my stomach as it shakes through me. 

Eydis grumbles in disdain, deeming herself above our childish playing.  Orochi is the one to swipe Jean out of the air – he reappears beside me on Orochi’s back.  A scowl darkens his expression, but his eyes still gleam. 

“You fucking Viking!” he barks, no less loud despite the dying wind.  “Calling me a dick – fucking asshole!”

“You did that to me like, a dozen times!” I protest. 

“A dozen times,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes.  “Dragonshit.  Maybe twice.”

“Still!”  I grin sideways at him.  “You got what you deserved!  Justice, Jean.  It’s justice.”

He harrumphs loudly, throwing both of his hands up.  “I never said your name like _that_!”

I furrow my brow.  “Like what?”

“Like… _that._ ”  He hesitates, biting his lip, and a flush colors his cheeks.  “Never mind.”

“If you say so,” I chuckle, throwing my arm behind my head and stretching.  “Fuck, that was a lot of fun.  Don’t know the last time I’ve been so scared, to be honest.”

“Maybe the time you were abducted by a man riding a Boneknapper.”

I give him a sideways warning scowl.  “Hey.”

“Or maybe the time you nearly shit yourself riding on that same Boneknapper.”

“Jean, shut up, you tremendous bag of dicks –”

“But the ‘dear Thor I’ve been abducted by a crazy hermit’ has to take the cake, right?”

I throw my head back in a laugh.  “You’re full of shit, Jean.  I’m trying to be serious.”

“Me, too.”  His expression softens marginally.  “…But this has been fun.”

“You’re lucky to be able to do this whenever you like,” I say enviously, admiring the colorful flock surrounding us.  “Nothing like this back at home.  Nothing so fun.”

“…It’s not usually… as…”  He rubs his hand at the back of his neck, cheeks rosy from the cold air.  “Fun?  Wild?  What’s the word?”

“I don’t know what it’s called,” I say, meeting his gaze and holding it with a smile that feels sweet across my lips, “but I know what you’re talking about.”

His face blushes redder than a tomato.  Making a soft, distressed grunt, he stares down at his hands as if they hold a secret to the universe.  I look away with a chuckle and a perhaps too-tender smile. 

The poignant sunset settles on the black ocean’s distant edge.  The final topaz rays of light burst outwards from a bead of sun left in the sky, a brilliant explosion against the dim purples and blues the sky dims into.   Where once were few, a thousand stars have emerged in the periwinkle coming dusk. 

Already, we’re reaching familiar terrain.  There on the horizon the Bewilderbeast’s nest sits, a magnificent icy fortress kissing the sky like an icy flower. 

It instills a sense of calmness in my heart – a sleepy heaviness to my bones, a lulling droop of my eyelids.  The thrill of leaping across the backs of dragons passed.  Or perhaps not passed.  Perhaps merely tucked away to be revisited later, in my dreams or perhaps even on another flight with Jean beside me. 

The dragons around us lift their heads towards the nest.  Automatically, Eydis alters her flight, banking left with a broad sweep of her wings.  Orochi follows. 

“Ought to change dragons, don’t you think?” I call over to Jean, interrupting his reverie. 

His head snaps up.  Blinking disconcertedly, he glances towards Eydis and then Orochi.  The wrinkling of his brow maybe shouldn’t be as cute as it is. 

“Oh, yeah.”  Without further preamble, he skips across Orochi’s wing and takes a flying leap.  He lands flawlessly on Eydis. 

“You make it look so easy,” I sigh, shaking my head as he scurries up beside me.  “I don’t understand how you’re so good at it.”

“Practice.”  He settles beside me and shyly bumps our shoulders – I realize with a pleasant shock that it’s the first time he’s bumped my shoulder and not the other way around.  “If you want, we can… practice more.”

My heart melts with only one shy, hopeful glance.   

“I’d love that, Jean,” I reply warmly.  “Really.  It sounds amazing.”

He exhales out loud.  “Good.  Okay.  Great.”

“Were you expecting anything different?”  I nudge him gently.  “I like spending time with you.”

The words spill out of my mouth without me ever putting thought behind them, and only a half-second later do I realize that _holy fuck_ , that sounds… intimate.  Jean’s breath jars.  His cheeks flush.  But he nods slowly, accepting my words without comment. 

Maybe that’s best. 

So wrapped up in my own thoughts, I forget to transfer back to Orochi – either Jean doesn’t notice either or likes my company.  I’m too scared to consider which. 

The dragons screech greetings as we near the den.  As Eydis angles her wings to fly through the tunnel to the interior, I feel my eyes drooping.  A bone-numbing weariness crashes upon me all at once in the darkness of the tunnel.  It’s all I can do not to keel over.  Groaning, I arch my back and rest my forehead against her cool scales. 

“Marco?”  Jean presses a hand to my back and flinches away – I try not to think about how cold he feels.  His hand sweeps up and presses against my forehead – cold as well. 

“I knew you were still sick!” Jean cries, but he doesn’t sound accusatory – just worried.  I groan an argument, but he hushes me with a waved hand. 

“Just… don’t fall,” he says, clutching onto my shoulder. 

“’M not sick,” I mumble.  “Just sleepy as fuck.”

“Yes, you are, fucking Viking.  Either way, don’t fall.”

He wraps his arms tightly around my midriff.  I nuzzle into the warmth of his embrace, settling happily against his chest.  A happy hum escapes me as his hand tentatively rises to comb softly through my hair.  

We burst out into the light of the cavern, and a thousand shrieks of dragons welcome us back, creating a glorious cacophony that would’ve been amazing any other time.  But now, the light is to bright and the noises too loud.  My ears ring painfully.  Wincing away, I mutter a curse.  _Fucking head._

Jean murmurs something and Eydis sets down on the ledge in front of his hollow.  He slips off and I follow sluggishly.  I laugh quietly when he helps me down, roll my eyes when he plods overbearingly by my side.  

Orochi is just as bad.  The dragon mewls and rubs against my side, nudging me unsubtly towards his offered back.  I laugh and rub his forehead affectionately, but don’t take him up on the offer. 

Perhaps their presence is a good thing, though; my legs feel like lead when I try to navigate the slick ice on the tunnel floor.  I lean against the frozen walls as I walk, holding my arm out cautiously.  Not for the first time, I wonder why Jean lives in such a strange place.  At least the cool ice feels good against my shoulders.  

When we reach his homey little cavern, my vision tunnels on his bed.  I start forward so clunkily that my feet trip over one of his pillows – I barely catch myself before I collide with the soft earth.  

“Careful!” Jean hisses, appearing beside me.  “You’ll break your nose, too!”

“Mother hen,” I chuckle.

“Get in bed,” he grumbles, nudging me forward gingerly. 

“Okay,” I comply meekly, stumbling up beside it.  I tip forward, diving into the blanket with a blissful sigh.  The blankets are cool and the mattress is soft – with a rumbling groan, I bury myself beneath them. 

Jean clears his throat awkwardly, and I peek sideways at him.  He looks stressed, gulping nervously.  His forehead glistens with a thin layer of sweat. 

Clumsily, I touch my hand against his forearm.  “I’ll be okay,” I reassure him, dimly aware of the slurring of my words.  He glances at me dubiously, and I do my best to smile healthily. 

He shifts and sits beside me on the bed, careful to take my hand on his arm with him.  I try not to smile wider because of it.  Gently, Jean cups a hand over my forehead, pushing the hair out of my face.  His eyebrows knit together in concern. 

“You’re sick,” he murmurs guiltily.  “You need to sleep.”

I nod, compliant.  “’Kay.  Don’t go?”

Jean’s gaze softens.  He nods shyly.  “I’ll stay til you fall asleep.”

“Thank you, Jean.”  I smile and close my eyes. 

Snuggling into the warm blankets, I let the tension seep from my body and relax.  A low sigh escapes me.  In the last of conscious thoughts that slip through my brain, dim and foggy as they are, I feel happy that Jean stays beside me. 

And though his warmth fades into the sweet jumble of dreams and his voice is lost upon my sleeping ears, Jean dances over the backs of dragons in my dreams.

* * *

 

The ocean waves battle bitterly with the cold cliffs of the island’s point.  Black rock stands resistant as the waves smash against its impassive face.  Each wave grows more vicious with its attack, but each wave sucks back with a frustrated roil.  The white sea foam it sprays has a nasty habit of seeping through an unwary Viking’s clothes and numbing their whole body right under their noses. 

Armin shivers and curls in on himself at yet another mist spits up at them.  His jaw trembles with the threat of chattering his teeth together.  If it keeps up, he’ll freeze here against the cliff.  He wishes Ymir and her contact would hurry up. 

His original plan was for the two of them to meet on the traders’ deck.  It’s nice by Berk standards, the deck is.  Plenty of space, a fairly calm, harbored area of the island.  Sometimes, with a dash of luck, those on the docks even get glimpses of sun. 

But Ymir’s contacts apparently aren’t always legal.  According to Mikasa, it’s a rarity they are. 

_Ymir the Ravager, they used to call her._

It doesn’t truthfully surprise Armin, but it makes meeting with them an incredible inconvenience.  These cruel cliffs along one side of their island, hidden from spying eyes, is the only place that Ymir’s contact deemed safe.  And it’s absolutely miserable here. 

The contact in question clings to the side of Berk’s daunting cliff.  An unpleasant smile forces its way constantly over her face, large and uncannily toothy.  When she glances his way, Armin’s skin crawls. 

Ymir and the strange woman speak softly but passionately.  They swing their arms around and jab angry fingers.  Armin can see Ymir get gradually more frustrated.  Her teeth set and grind together, like a snarling beast, but her contact smiles, only ever smiles. 

“Ymir doesn’t look happy,” Eren remarks. 

“No, she doesn’t,” Armin says softly.  “I hope she’s getting what we need…”

After a few more minutes of conversation, Ymir throws up her hands in irritation.  She barks something that is clearly a dismissal.  The smiling woman disappears in a spritz of sea spray, and Ymir storms back over the slick, barnacle-crusted rocks. 

When she lands beside them, she growls a greeting.  Her glower makes Armin want to grovel in front of her. 

“You find out everything?” Eren asks, tilting his head to one side. 

“Nah,” Ymir growls, kicking a stone from the path.  “Fuckin’ shitface too damn stupid to trust.  But I got a helluva lot of leads.”  She glances at Armin.  “Oi, let’s get you outta the spray before ya catch a damn cold.  You’re gonna fuckin’ die if you keep ‘at up.  I’ll tell ya what that fucker told me then, eh?”

“O-okay,” Armin stutters through chattering teeth.  Eren glances down at him in surprise. 

“You’re cold,” he says with concern.  Immediately, he moves to shrug off his thick, fur-lined cloak. 

“E-Eren, I don’t need that,” Armin says softly, nudging his side.  “I know you love it.  I’ll be okay.”

Indeed, it’s a fine garment, dark green in color and with a furry interior to insulate its wearer from the bitter Berk cold.  Displayed across its back is the proud crossed-wings insignia of their tribe.  Usually, the only ones to possess such expensive, patriotic things are Chiefs.  And on anyone else, the corners of the cloaks would’ve frayed and the fur would’ve matted if they’d worn it as frequently as Eren. 

But Armin knows he worships the thing.  It looks as stately as the first day he had it made. 

“No, no, you’re cold,” Eren insists, throwing it over his shoulders.  His fingers touch Armin’s clothes in the process, and he flinches back.  “Frigga, you’re soaked through!”

“’S what you get for coming down here,” Ymir grouches. 

“We came down here for you!” Eren cries indignantly. 

“I told you to stay warm and save face.  Ya should’ve listened to me and stayed back.  Your sister sure did.”

Armin follows her sweeping gesture towards the docks.  Squinting, he glimpses Mikasa calmly lounging beside an iron-clad warship in a rare flash of sunlight, happy as a fat cat. 

Eren mumbles a curse.  “C’mon, Armin, let’s go.”

He places a guiding hand on Armin’s back to help steady him.  His cheeks flush as Eren’s hand lingers as they climb over the rocks.  Eren offers help up boulders, catches him when he jumps off ledges.  When Armin’s foot slips, Eren’s hand catches him in an iron grip.  Even on the easiest leg of the journey, he can feel his friend’s hand through the thick cloak. 

The cloak smells like Eren.  Intoxicatingly, dangerously, wonderfully of Eren. 

Armin tries not to dwell on it.  Not with Eren right beside him. 

After several new bruises, scrapes, and Ymir tirades about the evils of cliffs, they stagger weakly onto the decks, sopping wet and miserable. 

“Welcome back,” Mikasa says, regarding them mildly.

“Smartass,” Ymir spits without malice.  Her tousled hair is plastered to her face, and water drips off her nose. 

Mikasa shrugs.  “You had it covered.  What did you find out?”

“Well, first of all,” Ymir harrumphs, lugging herself over to a post and collapsing on it with a wet squelch, “nobody’s seen hide nor hair of a Night Fury as of late.  And if someone had, we’d know about it.”

“They’d be really valuable on the dragon-smuggling market,” Armin says thoughtfully.  “An extinct dragon alive again?  There’d be a lot of money in that.”

“Hmmm.”  Eren’s hands are on Armin again, fastening the cloak tighter around him.  “What about the dragon trappers themselves?”

“They were working for a fella called ‘Beast’,” Ymir says.  “Not much is known about him, just that he’s intah kidnapping children 'nd blackmailing his employees.”

A stormy scowl tugs her lips down.  A ghost of memories dance in her dark glare – from the little Armin knows of Ymir’s past, such things would resonate strongly with her.    

“But, anyway,” she continues, “the operation had been goin’ for a few months, criminal network knew ‘bout it and kept it silent.  Didn’t tell me nothin’ – why would I need to know about it, ya know?”

She kicks a stray stone furiously.  It careens into the ocean and lands with a solid plop. 

“They can be tight lipped,” Armin says soothingly.  “No one knew to even ask.”

“Yeah, well.”  Ymir kicks at the dock again.  “They would’ve been out of here in a few weeks, but they bit off more than they could chew with the Screaming Death.  Didn’t have proper equipment for anythin’ bigger than a Monstrous Nightmare.  Some of the locks malfunctioned under suspicious conditions – our friend Marco, I’d reckon – and somehow, the thing and a fuckton of other dragons got out.”

“Was there any news of a Night Fury being in their cargo?” Eren asks urgently. 

“There was.  There was a Night Fury.  But no one knows if it sunk in its shackles or was part of the chaos.  I’d like to say there’s a big chance, but…”  She shrugs.  “Night Furies garner attention like motherfuckers.”

Eren swings his head back and forth like a bull before charging.  “He’s out there!”

“Relax, shortie,” Ymir snorts, cuffing him.  “Never said he ain’t.  But we don’t got a lot o’ leads to go off o’.”

“Are there any survivors from the wreckage?” Armin inquires.  “We could start investigations there, since Marco’d probably wash ashore somewhere nearby.”

Eren glances at him appraisingly.  “Good idea, Armin!  Ymir, anywhere like that?”

“Actually, yes.”  She cracks a sly, dangerous smile.  “Most of ‘em washed ashore on an island of Catastrohpic Quaken and were promptly gobbled up.  Serves ‘em right, I say.  But just west of there is a trading port – big old floating market.”

Eren’s eyes light up.  “A trader’s den?!  Ymir, that’s excellent!”

“Why…?”  Confused, Armin tilts his head to one side.  “Why is that such a good thing?”

“Traders and their company are notoriously chatty,” Mikasa says contentedly.  “We’ll find any rumors about Night Furies there if there are any to be found.”

Ymir cracks her knuckles menacingly.  “Oh, trust me,” she growls with a dark chuckle, “they’ll tell us whatever ya need to know.  I’ll get whatever information ya need, blondie, ‘nd then some.”

“Blondie’s a step up from gnome,” Armin muses. 

“Gnome?” Eren echoes, eyebrows knitting together.

“Hush, you,” Ymir grunts, glaring at him reproachfully.  “That’s a secret.”

“Gnome,” Mikasa repeats softly, sounding amused. 

“Anyway, was there anything else you needed tah know?” Ymir asks, sloppily trying to change the subject.  “’Cause she’ll be gone in another second.  Migrational patterns of Hobblegrunts or somethin’?”

“That’d be fascinating, but I think I’m good, Ymir,” Armin says, trying poorly to hide his pleasure.  “You’re a valuable asset, you know that?”

She snorts.  “O’ course I know that!  Fuckin’ blondie, me or Mikasa are the best ones on this team, don’t you forget it.  If that’s it, though, I gotta get back tah the forge before Fucknut burns it down.”

“Of course,” Armin says smoothly with a cheerful smile.  “Eren, can you fill Connie and Sasha in?  And you, Mikasa, can you convince the Chief to send us out on a mission?”

Eren nods, turns on a dime, and sprints up the path as if his life depends on it.  He slips in the mud twice that Armin sees.  Grumbling about the overzealous, Ymir follows ploddingly.  Mikasa steps forward, a question in her eyes. 

“When?” she says quietly. 

Armin smiles.  “As soon as possible.  I’m not sure we can restrain Eren any longer, and I’ve got a good idea about where I want to begin.”

“Where is that?”

He purses his lips and cocks his head.  “Well, we’ll break into the scene with some of the finest goods we all have to catch attention.  A lot of our plan will probably be reliant on Ymir doing her thing.”

“Threatening to maim and cripple?” Mikasa deadpans. 

Armin grins.  “It’s what us Vikings are best at.  Someone is liable to have some sort of clue about where to go after that, so… we’ll have to see.”

“What if we have to fight for him back?” Mikasa asks. 

He hesitates.  “…We probably won’t have the provisions for a full-on fight by then, you’re right.”  Armin twirls a strand of hair through his fingers.  “We might have to hire mercenaries.  So bring whatever you won’t miss, because if push comes to shove, it’ll be expensive.”

She nods.  A smile splits through her impassive mask, and she reaches a hand out to thumb along the seam of Eren’s prized cloak.  “He left this with you,” she notices, eyes twinkling.

“Oh – oh, I’ve got to make sure to get this back to him!”  Armin seizes the edges guiltily.  “Oh, but it’s so wet…  Should I dry it first, you think?”

“I doubt he’ll mind if you keep it,” she says softly, wrapping it back around him.  “He’ll be happy it kept you warm, I think.”

Armin’s cheeks flush with pleasure.  Smiling down at his feet, he wraps it further around him and takes in a deep, indulgent sniff of Eren’s lingering scent. 

“Give it to him when you see him next,” Mikasa advises.  Tucking her scarf a bit tighter around her neck, she smiles knowingly down at him. 

“O-okay.”  Armin spares a bashful smile.  “Thanks, Mikasa.”

“Of course.”

* * *

 

The waves pound against the stones mercilessly.  Hissing white foam slaps against Bertholdt’s skin, salt-ridden water stings behind his eyelids and burns his nostrils, and his own blood washes down the rocks.  Gasping for breath, shaking muscles clutching his body against the stone, he cares about none of this – there is only a shaky exaltation in his own life. 

The waters surrounding the island had been cruel.  True to their ways, the current had swept past the far side, a place of daunting cliffs and rocky outcroppings.  When the sun peeked over the horizon, the iceberg had been little more than a floe.  Hands clasped together, Reiner and Bertholdt had plunged into the icy water. 

His throat burns with every choked gasp.  He shivers from the cold water, shivers from his sore muscles, shivers with the glee of living, of surviving. 

Sparing a glance sideways, he watches Reiner scale the shore’s simple staircase of rocks, clambering ungracefully like a wet cat over the stone.  He had had it worse, Bertholdt knows.  Poor Reiner, starved and weak, swimming through an ocean cold and dark as Death, the small shocks pulsing through the water a silent promise of the electric predators looming beneath them.  

They’d washed ashore like wreckage.  Bertholdt had been smacked against a rock.  He watches the blood pool around one of the cuts slicing through his pale hand, a dash of red in white – then, another wave smashes against him and pours over his body, washing the red away.  If his hands hadn’t been so numb, perhaps it would sting. 

A muffled shout reaches over the cacophony of the roaring waves.  Reiner watches him from all fours atop the tiny cliff, his elbows wobbling violently.  Bertholdt smiles and he smiles back.  With a trembling hand, he gestures towards the staircase. 

Bertholdt forces his hands from the crude rockface he’d taken shelter against and moves slowly sideways.  It’d only made sense, to let Reiner go first.  The route up was simple even when they’d been so exhausted death seemed sweet; he didn’t worry about Reiner’s ability to climb it.  He’d taken refuge against the stones instead of being pulverized against them. 

Reiner watches him keenly from atop.  It provides a false guise of safety.  Bertholdt carefully transfers from the jagged barnacles that cut his hands to the smooth stones of the staircase. 

First is slick rock.  He’d lost his shoes to the deep, a small price to pay for life, but it makes the wetness tricky.  Bertholdt crawls like an abject animal on his hands and knees.  When the dampness disappears, he rises back onto his hind legs and scrambles like a madman. 

Reiner gives a hoarse, jubilant cry as Bertholdt clambers onto the ledge.  He crawls weakly towards him, and Bertholdt scrambles towards him in return.  With a sob of relief, Bertholdt throws his arms around Reiner. 

He’s cold and wet and covered in grime, but Bertholdt clutches him tightly.  His eyes screw shut and he buries his face into Reiner’s hair, pressing feather-soft kisses to his forehead.  The water on his beloved’s forehead tastes like salt but he couldn’t care less. 

Reiner wraps his arms around Bertholdt’s waist with a shadow of their former strength.  Perhaps in other situations, the shadow would be saddening, to see how far he’s fallen.  Now it’s only comforting to see that the shadow still remains. 

“We did it,” Reiner whispers, voice fierce despite the exhausted hoarseness in it.  “We did it, Bertholdt.”

Bertholdt can only whimper softly in response, running his hands down Reiner’s back and feeling the weary quiver of his muscles.  He holds Reiner so, so tight, as if to let him go would be to relinquish him back to the nightmarishly cold waters.  So, rather than lose him, he clutches all the tighter. 

He isn’t sure for how long they crouch on that rock, arms encircling around one another, shivering until their clothing dries and the salt crusts their hair.  When he’s aware of something other than the delirium, the sun has become hidden by a thick layer of clouds.  There’s no way to tell how far it’s sunken in the sky, but he’s willing to guess that night isn’t far away. 

“We need to move,” he murmurs into Reiner’s ear.  His voice forces itself from his aching throat.  By the way his arms tighten around Bertholdt, he can tell his companion isn’t pleased with the verdict. 

In honesty, Bertholdt doesn’t want to move either.  He wants to lie down and shiver himself to sleep on the cold rock.  But shelter, warmth, cannot be found here.  Already, the rising tide threatens to engulf their tiny cliff. 

Blinking his eyes to be rid of the crusted salt sealing his lashes together, he studies the rocky face.  There is a path they could take.  And there, no further than two hundred paces left – a worthy place for shelter.  A stab of pain arches down his spine when he lifts his neck.  It’s a flat slab of rock, overhanging with trees to shelter them from the nighttime gales.  And, beside that –

He squints, trying to ignore the excited pounding of his heart.  Berry bushes?  He can’t be sure.  Not at this distance. 

The one problem with this location is that it’s primarily up.  And up is difficult when you cannot feel your fingers, as he has learned.  His resolve hardens with a glance to Reiner, curled up in a feeble ball against his chest. 

They’ve come this far.  He can’t give up.  Not yet. 

He charts a path up the rocks with his eyes.  Mustering the final bits of strength left in his aching bones, he turns to Reiner.  He runs a hand through his blonde hair, encrusted with salt. 

“We need to go, love,” he says hoarsely.  Reiner only nestles closer.  He shuts his eyes and sighs, but he can’t find the energy to be upset. 

Taking Reiner into his arms, Bertholdt rises slowly.  His back aches and his arms tremble with the weight of his friend.  Bone-weary, his legs burn with the threat of collapse.  Every muscle in his body feels like they’ll give out if he takes another step – it’s agony, terrible agony, and a cold stone of certainty settles in his stomach.  To move will only make it worse. 

He presses a kiss to Reiner’s forehead and takes a step anyway. 

His instincts were right.  And it _hurts_ , it hurts so much – he cries out and pain laces up his legs and throbs across his back – but Reiner curls around him tighter.  His beloved presses a soft kiss to his collarbone, and Bertholdt somehow manages to take another anguished step. 

Reiner’s hands curl around his neck.  With pruned fingers, he rubs soft, soothing circles into the back of Bertholdt’s neck.  It gives him the strength to walk another stride, and another, and another until he’s hobbling slowly and painfully away. 

He doesn’t glance back at the sea.  He doesn’t take one last look at the last sliver of blue ice that’d been their savior.  He doesn’t watch the rocks or reminisce nostalgically over the days spent on the ocean.  He only faces forward and steps forward and thinks about keeping himself alive. 

And so the bone-white dragon sweeping across the black sea goes unnoticed by either one of them.

* * *

 

The glimmering coal beds of the Great Hall flicker sullenly.  Their dying orange flames lazily yawn, waxing and waning like tired children blinking their eyes to stay awake.  They cast long shadows over the hideous faces of dragons carved into the walls, totems of days long past when dragons were to be feared and hated.  Long, torn banners of faded colors hang stagnantly from the ceiling, their frayed fabric smelling of smoke and home. 

The massive doors are shut now, but the stone floors around them are cracked and worn from overuse and exposure to harsh Berk elements.  Wooden benches in desperate need of replacing clump around the dying ember beds.  The crowning jewel, the throne sitting against the carved wall.  A poignant grey light shafts in from a hole in the ceiling for smoke, just so happening to crown the empty seat in its tentative radiance. 

Empty throne, empty seats, empty hall.  Such oppressing emptiness in a place meant to be filled to the brim with laughter. 

Erwin watches in a musing sort of silence, glancing from the coals to the undulating light to the swinging banners.  The ash makes his eyes sting, but he doesn’t shut them for longer than a blink. 

Normally, this peaceful silence would be a blissful break.  He can’t help but feel that he’s become far too closely acquainted with the boredom. 

With the stagnancy. 

With the nothingness.

A side door peeks open with a shuddering moan of the hinges.  A cold gust makes the dying coals shiver, their light faltering for only a moment.  The door swings shut with a heavy clang, and they flicker back to life, illuminating a familiar sharp face and frame. 

Levi walks across the room silently.  He seeks Erwin’s gaze, but Erwin stares stubbornly into the embers, even as the other man grows closer and closer.  He pauses beside the bed of embers. 

“So.”  After a long silence, Levi leans against a table, his gaze still boring into Erwin.  “Mikasa.”

“Yes.”  He rests his chin upon his fist, leaning heavily on his knees.  “Mikasa.”

Another silence echoes through the vacant hall.  This time, it’s weighted and tense.  Levi stares at him pointedly, hungry for direction.  With a delicate sigh, Erwin closes his tired eyes and relieves their stinging. 

Then, rising, he turns to face Levi, half-drenched in the shadows.  The firelight flickers across his pale skin, casting looming shadows. His dark eyes gleam like precious jewels. 

“What do you think of the situation, Levi?” he inquires, more for his own musing than anything.

“They wouldn’t look for the Screaming Death,” he says helpfully.  “They’d look for Marco.”

Erwin arches an eyebrow.  “Insightful.  I was, however, hoping for something a bit more in depth.”

Levi hesitates.  Erwin watches his face intently, searching for the emotions he keeps so tightly under wraps – a sideways glance lasting half a second, a momentary tensing of his jaw, a shift in stance, a shimmer in a his gaze. 

“Marco’s probably dead,” Levi deadpans.  “But the boy won’t believe it until he’s seen it for himself.”

 _The boy._   Erwin’s lips quirk at Levi’s insistence on being prickly.  If he hadn’t heard him call Eren _my boy_ and _our boy_ before, he would’ve likely believed Levi’s projected air of indifference. 

“Very true.”  Erwin smiles thinly.  “But if something were to happen to them, the death toll would be nearly unmanageable.”

Levi nods slowly. 

“That said,” Erwin sighs, covering his eyes with his hand, “can I justify not sending out a single search party for Marco?”

“You sent one already,” Levi says.  “You were on it, you old fart.”

Erwin cracks a wry smile.  “You know what I meant, Levi.  I’m not sure if I’ve done all I can.” 

“You’ve kept the village safe.”

“Not all of it.  And, Levi – you’ve seen it as much as I have.  We lost more than Marco that day.  Berk hasn’t been the same since.  And I can’t help but feel that –”  Troubled, he breaks off and stares into the flickering coals, watching their seductive dying sway as if they hold the answers. 

“I respect your decision,” Levi says evenly, his eyes glittering with a soft, steady determination.  He leans forward ever so slightly, a silent _And I always will_ unsaid on his lips. 

And Levi _always_ _will_ – he’d follow Erwin to the very ends of the world without a single question if Erwin asked him to.  No matter how ridiculous, no matter how stupid, Levi would be there.  He _is_ here. 

A surge of affection hits him hard in the gut.  The weight lifts briefly from his shoulders. 

“Oh, my sweet Levi, what would I do without you?” he sighs, unabashedly tender. 

Levi scoffs and rolls his eyes.  “Make stupid-ass choices and get yourself killed, probably.”

Erwin’s lips quirk.  “Probably, yes.  I love you, my darling.  You know that?”

“You’re not subtle about it.”  Levi sounds bored, sounds annoyed, but his beautiful eyes are sparkling softer, his lips less of a hard line.  It’s as much of an _I love you, too_ as Erwin’s ever gotten out of him, but it’s enough.  It’s _more_ than enough.  After a moment of hesitation, Levi marches strongly into Erwin’s space.  He tilts his head back and sets his jaw. 

“No matter what you choose, the boy will run off anyway,” Levi says, a practiced carelessness in his voice.  “I’ll do whatever you tell me too.” 

“I know you would,” Erwin whispers roughly, cupping the side of Levi’s face.  He runs his thumb along Levi’s cheekbone, the skin still cold from the everlasting cold of Berk. 

“Thank you, Levi,” he says fondly.  “I don’t think I thank you enough.”

“For what?” he asks, dark eyes searching Erwin’s face, lips parting slightly. 

“For loving me,” Erwin says simply, eyes crinkling in the corners with his smile.  “For being my lovely, lovely husband.”

“Tch,” he says, pulling his head away from Erwin’s hand to hide a faint scarlet touch to his cheeks.  “You’re a ridiculous, sentimental old man.”

“Yet you love me anyway.”

Levi grunts indifferently, mumbling something distinctively unflattering beneath his breath.  Chuckling, he tucks his arm back by his side and smiles warmly at his lover. 

Sweet Levi, by his side forever.  The light of his life, his sanity in the fresh bout of misery on the boggy rock of Berk.  Perhaps he has gone sentimental with age, he thinks fondly, but to him, there can be no greater than Levi. 

A sharp crack of the fire breaks him from his thoughts.  His eyes snap to the flurry of embers dancing around a broken log, disappearing back into the smoldering masses.  As his shoulders slump, the gravity of the situation smashes back into him full force. 

“If they die,” Erwin sighs heavily, “their blood will be on my hands.  The village will be furious.  I don’t know how they’ll react like this – it might not be good for either of us, Levi.”

Levi inclines his head slightly, a small smile slitting across his thin lips.  “They can’t do shit to me without getting past Scrapmetal.”

“They might get past Scrapmetal,” Erwin cautions. 

“They won’t get past me.”  Levi steps closer to him, his gaze intense in the same way a wolf’s is – mysterious and powerful.  “Don’t worry about that.”

“But I will.”  Erwin closes his eyes and swallows.  “Very well.  Tell Mikasa that I grant her permission to leave.  Tell her that I also grant every one of them access to my personal armory and maps.”

“Yes, sir.”  Levi’s hand brushes his arm so gently it’s as if he doesn’t touch Erwin at all.  Then he slips away back into the darkness of the Great Hall.  A cold breezes steals through an open door, and then Levi is gone again. 

Alone again the darkness, Erwin’s eyes are inevitably drawn to the smoldering embers.  He knows this feeling, this stagnancy, this long, drawling nothingness.  So many times before, he’s felt it, enough times to know that a pause in daily life only comes before something massive. 

Something powerful. 

Something that alters the paths of all those that cross it. 

Such as the dark before daybreak.  Such as the calm before the storm. 

Alone with his thoughts, Erwin stays by the fire as the softly smoldering coals go out one by one.

* * *

 

Eren tests the straps of leather tethering the supplies to Titan with powerful tugs.  It yanks at the dragon’s neck more than it tightens any slackness; he mumbles apologetically to Titan and pats his spine softly.  Titan doesn’t truly seem that perturbed. 

He rests a hand on the base of Titan’s neck.  The scales there are cool, fluttering slightly beneath his fingers.  With a soft sigh, Eren crashes forward and butts his head against them.  He closes his eyes and tries to clear his thoughts of the raging fears and doubts looming in the corners of his mind. 

Titan puffs a questioning breath back at Eren.  When he doesn’t receive a response, the dragon growls and rests its chin on his shoulder.  A more irritated puff of hot air washes over Eren’s scalp. 

“Sorry,” Eren mumbles, peeling his eyes open sleepily.  He glances at Titan with a thin smile – the dragon gurgles, its narrow eyes widening with concern.  His massive jaws are surprisingly gentle as he nibbles at Eren’s hair, hot tongue swiping at the shell of his ear. 

“Hey, cut that out,” Eren chuckles, shoving his nose away.  Titan snorts indignantly, nudging Eren right back.  Laughing, he swipes a mocking punch at Titan’s nose.  The dragon growls so lowly it could almost be a content hum.  Closing his eyes, he presses against Eren’s side.  The growl rumbles through Eren, low and sonorous, and tender, too – in Titan’s own way. 

“Don’t worry about me, you old pile of dragonshit,” Eren says, wrapping both of his arms around Titan’s head and bringing their eyes very close together.  “I’ll be okay, got it?”

Titan huffs skeptically. 

Eren sighs tiredly, but he can’t honestly think of a retort to his dragon’s doubt.  He’s feeling just about the same.  Stroking down the center of Titan’s face, he glances out towards the quiet village of Berk. 

It’s darker than usual in the solemn streets.  Few torches cast cheerful glows through the town.  Even Ymir’s forge is dead, extinguished in preparation for tomorrow’s trip.  Only the sliver of moon casts its soft ivory light down upon them, and only enough to see the gleam of Titan’s eyes and the slick gables on the roofs of sloping houses.  

The few souls that walk through the village scurry from shadow to shadow like thieves.  Somewhere, hidden in the labyrinthine map of crooked streets, a fistfight unfolds, the grunts and slam of flesh-on-flesh echoing loudly through the quiet night.  By the sound of the pleading cries, an obvious victor had emerged, and they were punishing whoever had challenged them in the first place. 

A shiver goes down Eren’s spine.  Maybe once, he would’ve charged through the village until he found the offender and pummeled them until they saw the wrong of their ways.  But reluctantly, he turns away from the town.  He’d been told once that violence never solved violence, just as fire never put out fire.  It hadn’t stopped him before.  Now, however, he pauses. 

Caught in the sounds of the fight, the cruel laughter and the shivering cries, Eren doesn’t notice the squelching footsteps of another pair of boots stumbling through the mud towards him.  Instead, he stares thoughtfully at the quivering shadow of the moon on the mirror of the black, roiling ocean.  His fingers smooth along Titan’s cool scales distractedly. 

It isn’t until they stumble and yip a soft curse that Eren notices them.  He glances casually back at them, figuring that Titan would’ve warned him if there was any threat to be found. 

Armin staggers gracelessly towards him.  Eren’s cloak is wrapped around him – Armin had bundled in his arms to keep it from dragging in the mud.  The bulk of the wool unbalances him, causing him to trip clumsily.  Even in the darkness, Eren knows his cheeks are flushing scarlet, and smiles. 

“Hey, Armin, shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he says softly when Armin at last shuffles up beside him. 

“I could say the same to you,” Armin sighs.  “What’re you doing out here, Eren?”

He shrugs.  “Couldn’t keep still.  Figured I’d stay with Titan.”

Armin’s brows knit together.  “That’s not good,” he chides gently.  “You need your sleep.  You know that.”

He shrugs again helplessly.  “Yeah.  Would if I could.  What’re you doing up, though?”  Eren peers curiously down at him.  “You’re usually in bed by now.  Was it nerves?”  His stomach knots.  “Wait, did you need to sleep with me tonight?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Armin laughs awkwardly, tucking his chin against his chest.  “No, I was waiting for you get back so I could give this back.”  He tugs at Eren’s cloak, something Eren himself had quite forgotten about until he pointed it out.  “You left it with me this morning, I’ve been looking all over for you since.  Here, it’s cold out –”

His slender fingers go up to unfasten the cloak from his shoulders, but Eren stops him with a firm hand.

“You should wear it,” he says automatically, instinctively, as naturally as breathing – yet soft, ever so soft, tender like his voice never is, so soft he does not recognize himself.  Armin’s blue eyes dart up to meet his own.  An unspoken question quivers in his powerful gaze.  Eren freezes, trapped by the intelligence in their intensity.  His cheeks heat explosively and he skitters backwards. 

“I mean, if you want to,” he amends skittishly.  “If you don’t – yeah, I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”

“That’s not it,” Armin laughs, softly as well.  “It’s really warm.  Really nice.  I just thought you’d like it, if you’re going to be spending the whole night out here.”

Comforted by Armin’s familiarity, Eren smirks dryly.  “Oh, I’ll be okay.  Titan will keep me warm.  Won’t you, bastard?”

Recognizing his name, the Monstrous Nightmare grumbles in annoyance.  Armin chuckles and pats his shoulder gently, so gently that Eren is doubtful Titan can even feel it through the layers of fat, hide, and thick scale armor. 

“He’s a good dragon,” Armin says fondly. 

“Oi, don’t say that around him,” Eren protests.  “It’ll all go to his head.  Imagine how awful it’d be to have him around then!”

“Do you hear the way he talks about you?” Armin coos, tentatively running a hand of Titan’s scales.  “Your rider is a mean, mean man.”

Eren sniffs.  “You’re dealing with his ego down the road.”

“I deal with yours,” Armin smiles, stepping closer.  “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep?  You’ll be exhausted tomorrow.”

“I’m sure.”  He smiles at Armin reassuringly.  “Don’t worry about me.  Who knows, I might pass out on Titan’s back eventually.”

He hesitates for a moment, and takes another step forward.  “Do you want me to stay with you, Eren?  I can if you want…”

“It’s fine, Armin.”  He smiles candidly.  “You need to sleep.  Like I said, I would if I could.  And we can’t both be dead-eyed tomorrow – I need someone to hold me in the saddle if I fall asleep in the air.”

Armin chuckles.  “Then I insist on returning this to you.  You need to stay warm so you don’t catch something – a sick Eren and an egotistical Titan, that’d be awful, wouldn’t it?”

“Hey,” Eren protests weakly, but he stoops for Armin to sweep the cloak over his shoulder.  Heavenly warmth envelopes him as it covers his bare, chilled arms.  Armin chuckles at the soft, blissful sound that slips through his lips. 

The littler boy rests the heels of his hands on Eren’s chest as his fingers work at the clasp.  Eren’s stomach gives a little flutter; he looks pointedly anywhere but Armin. 

“There you are,” Armin says, giving the clasp a parting pat.  “Warmer?”

“Much warmer,” Eren sighs, wrapping himself up in its soft folds.  “Thanks, Armin.”

He snorts.  “It’s your cloak, Eren.  Without it, though, I’m freezing.  I think I’m going to go get that shuteye.  Do you need anything else?”

“A kiss goodnight, m’dear?” Eren says with a cheeky grin. 

Armin rolls his eyes and coughs, flustered.  “Ah, don’t tease, Eren.  That’s not nice.  Anything real that you need?” 

He shakes his head regretfully.  “Nothing but a kiss.  You can head off to sleep and leave me here to pine, no worries.  I won’t hold it against you.”

Ever so slightly, Armin’s big blue eyes narrow, and Eren feels himself shrink from their scrutiny.  Those frighteningly smart eyes always seem like they can see through him as if he were glass – for the first time in a long time, he’s afraid of what part of him Armin might see.  Sleepiness had made him careless. 

Armin deserved to be wooed, not flirted with like a slutty barmaid.  Those eyes made him fear that this was a perilous misstep. 

But suddenly, Armin smiles tenderly, as if he’d seen something especially precious.  He blinks once, twice, slow like a cat at Eren.  Eren opens his mouth to ask if something is the matter, but before he can breathe a word, Armin lurches forward and plants an awkward kiss on his cheek. 

He whisks away in a flustered whirl and marches hurriedly off, throwing a stiff, “ _Goodnight Eren!_ ” over his shoulder before disappearing into the shadows of the houses.  Dumbfounded, Eren can’t do anything but watch him go. 

_Had that…?_

_Had that really happened?_

“Pinch me,” he murmurs to Titan, deliriously happy, “I must be dreaming.”

Titan nips his ear firmly. 

“Ow, hey!”  Eren smacks him across the nose.  “You’re such a bully.  I don’t even know why I hang around you, you big old heap of dragonshit.”

Titan snorts rudely in his face, grinning like a smug bastard.  He leers, waggling a tongue mischievously at him.  Eren rolls his eyes and traps his dragon in a headlock.

“You’re just the absolute worst,” Eren laughs as Titan tries to throw him.  “You should be patting me on the back, you asshole lizard.  Armin just fuckin’ kissed me!” 

As the words slip through his lips, Eren realizes the gravity they hold.  Suddenly, it’s very easy for Titan to buck him off.  Sighing dreamily, Eren leans up against his dragon’s shoulder and slides slowly to the ground, caring not that mud stains the corners of his cloak. 

“Holy shit, Armin kissed me,” he whispers up to the coldly indifferent stars.  A grin stretches across his face from ear to ear.  His heart flutters in his chest pathetically, his body tingles with happiness. 

Titan snorts, but it’s more affectionate this time – more of a _Look at you, you stupid love-struck human._

“Fuck, Titan,” Eren sighs happily, “what did I ever do to deserve him?”

Titan rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and sighs.

* * *

 

Bertholdt greedily shoves his cracked, bleeding hands back into the gnarl of thorns.  He feels another slice across the pads of his hands reopen, but he couldn’t care less as his fingers close around a fistful of berries.  He tears his hands back from the bushes, and a few more thorns snag on his hands. 

He turns and stumbles back towards Reiner.  Reiner’s eyes crinkle with a happy smile as he sees the next clutch of berries in Bertholdt’s hands.  His eyes sparkle.  A trickle of purple juice traces from the corner of his mouth.  Bertholdt’s heart gives a little flutter

The rock is flat and cold, but it’s sheltered from the wind.  The bushes are needled with thorns but also with berries.  Not rich, fat berries, per se, but the sort that release a tart burst of flavor onto the tongue.  It gives the illusion of a meal, at least, and after so long with nothing, the illusion is well-crafted. 

Happily, Bertholdt dumps his harvest onto the stone.  Reiner launches himself at them ravenously.  He shoves them into his mouth gleefully, swallowing six or so at a time, sucking the juices off his fingers.  Bertholdt’s heart nearly overflows with adoration. 

“The’th a’ tho goo’,” Reiner grunts out between fistfuls. 

“Careful not to choke,” Bertholdt laughs.  “It’d be a shame to be defeated by berries, after all this mess.”

“You haf’ no faif’,” he mocks, smiling weakly.  He swallows down the last of the berries with a mighty gulp.  Somehow, his belch is endearing to Bertholdt. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Bertholdt says fondly.  “You had me worried there.”

Reiner’s smile grows drier.  “Yeah, I was worried too.  Could do with a few more berries, but… ah, well.”  He takes Bertholdt’s hands gingerly in his.  “What about you?  How’re you holding up?”

Bertholdt shakes his head wearily.  “We’re going to need to find a water source soon.  But otherwise… I’m good.” 

“Let’s worry about water later,” Reiner grumbles.  He pitches forward and butts his forehead against Bertholdt.  “I want to sleep for three days.”

“Probably not a good idea,” Bertholdt chuckles, maneuvering Reiner until his head lies on his shoulder.  “We can sleep for now, but our berry supply is going to run out.  Before it does, I think we should head towards the village on the far side.”

He grunts.  “Might not be friendly.”

“We’ll take whatever we can get,” Bertholdt sighs.  Before he can dwell too much on the ambiguous future, he loops his arms around Reiner, rubbing his thumbs along his thin ribs. 

“Do you need anything more to eat?” he asks, concerned.  “You’re so thin…”

“I could do with some more sustenance,” Reiner admits, laying his hands over Bertholdt’s.  “But nothing worth you scarring up your hands for a few more berries.”

He cracks a wry smile.  “You’ve been loving those berries.”

“I have,” Reiner sighs happily.  “Food in general is good, I think.  And life.  I’m really fucking glad to be alive.”

“I understand the feeling,” Bertholdt murmurs, cupping Reiner’s gaunt face with one hand.  He runs the pad of his thumb along his cheekbone tenderly.  “Let’s stay alive, okay?”

“You drive a hard bargain,” he sighs, leaning into Bertholdt’s touch. 

Laughing, Bertholdt gently butts his forehead against Reiner’s.  “You’re becoming a silly old man,” he murmurs affectionately.

“Funny how near-death experiences will age you, isn’t it?”

“Not very funny,” he admonishes, rapping the back of Reiner’s scrawny hands. 

“A little funny.”

“Maybe.”  Betrayed by the quirk of his lips, Bertholdt shimmies out from Reiner’s grasp and stands.  “I’m going to get one more handful of berries for me, alright?  Then I think we should catch up on some sleep.”

“I enthusiastically second the notion,” Reiner sighs, his bruised, purple eyelids sealing over his red eyes.  Already, he curls up in on himself and nestles into a tiny ball. 

Bertholdt looks him over with concern – a sparse meal of berries won’t sustain him for long.  Reiner is nothing more than skin and bones.  To see such a powerful creature, a monster of a man, reduced to emaciation is… disturbing.  He lost too much weight out at sea, halfed too many of his meals in favor of giving them to Bertholdt.  Without a most basic layer of protection from the brutal elements, he’ll become sick during the harsh northern nights. 

Comparatively, Bertholdt looks and feels amazing.  He is no portly lord, but there are still resilient muscles clinging to his bones.  His skin is not cracked and wrinkled, his hands can risk being sliced open for food.  He can go on for a while longer yet. 

Reiner needs meat.  He needs meat and he needs water.  Rest, warmth, and protection.  If he doesn’t get that soon…

A shiver runs down his spine.  Bertholdt shakes the thought from his head and turns distractedly towards the berry bushes.  His gaze fixes on a rocky outcropping far from him, but his mind is even further from the present. 

The first thing that alerts him is the distinct smell of ozone. 

He sucks in a deep breath as a wave of the odor washes over him.  It overpowers every other scent, even the smell of the trees, even the smell of the ocean’s salt.  Instinctively, he sinks into a crouch and surveys the surroundings.  The palpable tingle of electricity in the air makes his skin tingle unpleasantly.  A deep mantra of _danger_ thrums deep in his gut. 

Suddenly, too suddenly, the air has become charged. 

Bertholdt frantically searches the rocks for any sign of movement.  He sidesteps cautiously towards the berry’s thorns for protection as he looks, but it is all in vain.  There is nothing.  Not even gulls stir on the rocky cliffs.  But the closer he looks, the more he sees – scorch marks on the stone, claws ripped into tree trunks.  A lone, lightning-scarred tree stands atop a cliff like a monument to any who cared to notice the warning hidden in its blackened branches. 

How stupid of him to ignore such an invaluable warning. 

His heart sings with fear.  It trembles and flutters helplessly, rattling against his ribcage like a frightened bird.  More than anything, he wants to run.  But run where?  He doesn’t know.  Terrified, he sinks further back into the brambles of the thorns.  The thorns slide threateningly against his skin, their barbs prepared to hook into his skin with any sudden movement.  He slips further back until he’s certain that nothing could see him from the outside. 

And that’s when he hears it. 

The first, echoing _zap_ of electricity. 

So, so close. 

His palpating heart stops.  A stab of pain shoots through its center.  Its choked, frightened rhythm booms in his ears like the beating of a mighty warm drum. 

But even over that, he can hear the second one. 

A louder, more ferocious _zap._   Followed by a scaly hiss like a snake’s jeweled scales sliding over tough desert sand. 

Bertholdt turns his head ever so slightly.  His heart jumps to his throat, and no matter what, he cannot swallow it back down again. 

The third _zap_. 

Low, threatening. 

Soft purple electricity. 

Dancing from the tip of one spine to the other. 

Yelling, Bertholdt launches himself from the brambles.  The thorns grab his arms and draw hot lines across his skin, snag his foot and send him flying.  He falls into them with a yelp.  The barbs sink only deeper into his arms.  In a daze of pain, he _feels_ a low growl trembling through the air. 

Panicked, he forces himself up.  The thorns catch his arm and throws his body back to the stone with a crack.  Groaning, Bertholdt tries to steady himself.  His chest heaves loudly, _too_ loudly, but his heart hammers even louder.  One of his legs are caught in a net of thorns, each digging into the soft flesh of his ankle.  Hot blood from other wounds traces down his arms in long red stripes. 

Something moves in his periphery – something big, something _black_. 

Another _zap_ echoes through the air like a taunt. 

“Bertholdt!” Reiner cries distantly. 

Everything in him screams to stay silent, but he throws back his head and screams Reiner’s name.  A surge of adrenaline bursts through his veins.  Snarling, he kicks away the thorns.  He staggers to a stand and shoves his way through their brambles.  They claw at him, but just as he feels himself being trapped again, he hears another _zap_. 

Bertholdt careens wildly out of the thorns.  He catches himself before falling at the last minute, stumbling to an unsteady halt.  Reiner shouts his name and staggers to his feet. 

“Back,” Bertholdt hisses, grabbing his companion by the wrists.  He drags Reiner away from the thorns, glaring suspiciously into their depths. 

“What –?”

“ _There’s something in there, Reiner_ ,” he whispers.  His voice quivers and cracks on his lover’s name.  Bertholdt glances away from the thorns and holds Reiner’s gaze. 

“ _There’s something in there,_ ” he repeats, eyes glazing with frightened tears.  “There’s – Thor, Reiner, _there’s a monster in there._ ”

Reiner blinks in slow, sleepy confusion.  “Bertholdt, what –”

_Zap._

Like the crack of a whip. 

So quiet it’s obnoxious.

Taunting. 

Like a cruel peal of laughter. 

Bertholdt’s hands constrict around Reiner’s wrists and he freezes.  His gaze snaps back to the thorns he had unbeknownst forgotten, and there, looming over the curls of their thorned branches, so terribly quiet, are a pair of ghostly white eyes. 

Bertholdt’s feet automatically carry him backwards.  Coincidentally, he tugs Reiner along too, cursing and stumbling over the rocks.  He yanks them both backwards until there is no where else to go. 

He glances backwards nervously at the drop behind them.  A few disquieted stones rattle off the sides of the cliff before plopping in the roiling waters meters below.  His head suddenly becomes very light.  Swallowing, Bertholdt drags his gaze up from the drop and back to the monster. 

It growls again, low and tremulous, terrible as sin.  It drops its head and slinks into the clearing, slow and silky, like ink spreading across paper.  The quiet _zap_ of lightning dancing over its back grows and becomes louder, sparkling in quick succession.  It dances across the dragon’s long spines, the curves of its wings and down to its jaws, snapping and popping in the air with explosive bursts of ozone. 

Bertholdt whimpers.  He clutches Reiner tighter. 

Black lips part to reveal gleaming white teeth.  And between the teeth, a growing glow of purple lightning sparks.  Its muzzle wrinkles, its wings arch above its head, sparkling with electricity, and the creature leases a rumbling snarl that trembles viciously through Bertholdt like a shockwave. 

The electricity sparkles, it _sizzles_ , each burst growing brighter and brighter, the ball of white growing in its maw, its head bucking up and its jaws spreading _wider_ , the terrible snarl building and _building_ into a low _roar_ , and Bertholdt squeezes his eyes shut, clutches Reiner tight –

And then, abruptly, it stops. 

He peeks one eye open cautiously.  The explosions of lightning along the creature’s back are softer now, back to the quiet zapping of before.  The dragon’s head is still held high, but it’s swung away now – focused on something more inland.  Focused _intently_.  The slits of its ghostly white eyes do not quaver from whatever they seek, far across the island. 

 _The village?_ Bertholdt ponders, his forehead wrinkling in a frown as the creature delays their death. 

As if sensing his thoughts, its head snaps back around.  The lightning snaps across its spines, but it seems almost resentful now.  It eyes them resentfully, pale eyes lacking the cold resolve of a predator – no, the dragon now seems more pissed off by their presence more than anything. 

“Its game’s been interrupted,” Reiner whispers.  “Whatever distracted it just saved our asses.”

The dragon snarls and bristles.  Its lightning pops in the air viciously.  But before it can even sink back into a hunter’s prowl again, the dragon perks back up and swings its body around to face the far side. 

“The village,” Bertholdt remarks in a wondering tone. 

“It’s being called,” Reiner remarks grimly. 

Narrowing its eyes resentfully, the dragon swings its head back around and deals a low parting growl.  A hateful bolt of electricity spits from its maw.  It explodes on the stone just a pace away from Reiner and Bertholdt’s feet.  Bertholdt yelps and nearly jumps off the cliff out of fright. 

But with a sweep of its giant black wings, the dragon is gone.  Only the sharp smell of ozone and the smoldering remains of its electricity breath tell that it was ever there in the first place.  A curl of smoke from the black spot on the rock warns against them overstaying their welcome. 

Bertholdt breathes out heavily and sags against Reiner’s body.  “On second thought, I think I can do without the berries,” he says faintly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this one was a fun one to write! Sorry for taking a month to get it up, life has been so busy lately... I have a feeling I'll get the next one up sooner, though. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the lovely, lovely comments - you're all amazing. Hearing from you guys brightens my entire day every time. 
> 
> I forget if I put it in last chapter, but I'm tracking a tag if you wanna get my attention that way. It's [fic: iwsiwf](https://www.tumblr.com/search/fic%3A+iwsiwf). 
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Monstrous Nightmare](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Monstrous_Nightmare)  
> -[Skrill](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Skrill)  
> There were a fuckton of dragons mentioned this chapter so let me know if you want anything cleared up!


	9. Wounded

Bertholdt glares suspiciously at the offending mound of food.  Everything about the fish seems threatening – their foul stench, their lifeless dead eyes, the long killing blows tucked beneath their chins, the way they’d shown up overnight only a few paces from where he and Reiner had collapsed last night.  His stomach is the only thing that disagrees with his suspicions.  It gives another rumbling growl at the thought of food.  

“I don’t like it, Reiner,” he insists, glaring.  “Mounds of fish don’t just grow out of the ground.”

He shrugs indifferently.  “So, what?  They’re nice n’ meaty.”

“So it’s unnatural!” he exclaims in a breathy tone.  He whips his head from side to side to clear it.  “It’s not worth it.”

“We need to eat, Bertholdt.”

He throws his hands up in frustration.  “And if there’s something wrong with them?  You’ll die, and leave me alone again.”  He hides the crack of his voice with a twist of his head, refusing to look his companion in the eye.  

“Bertl… it’s food,” Reiner sighs wearily.  “Just this once, let’s throw caution to the wind and eat fish.”

“Why haven’t any dragons touched it?”  Bertholdt’s eyes flit suspiciously over the grey stony crags, empty of any life beside theirs.  “Not even a Terror, Reiner.  Something’s wrong.”

“Maybe it’s finally going our way.”

Bertholdt growls over his stomach.  “I don’t trust it.”

Reiner sigh rattles through his lungs, a hollow, sickening sound that draws Bertholdt’s gaze.  His eyes sweep over his emaciated companion, the bulge of his collarbones and the cadaverous pallor of his skin.  They’ve been stuck on this damned cliff for how many days now?  The miraculous berries have run low and drinking water is equally scarce.  A surge of concern hits Bertholdt hard – Reiner does need food, and fish would be a blessing…

But they’re suspicious food.  He could be poisoning Reiner.  To risk killing him after all this way for a pile of suspicious fish…

“Bertl,” Reiner croaks, sealing his tired eyes defeatedly.  “Please.”

He feels his heart breaking into two pieces.  With a final long-suffering glare towards the fish, Bertholdt sighs and shakes his head.  

“I’ll gather firewood,” he relents glumly.  

Reiner’s lips tug upwards weakly in a smile.  “Thank you, Bertl.  You’ll feel better when your belly’s full.  I _guarantee_ it.”

Bertholdt cracks a weak smile.  “Good to hear that life coming back to your voice.”

“Fish’ll do that to a man,” Reiner says contentedly, sitting beside the stinking pile, crossing the thin twigs that once were legs.  

Bertholdt shakes his head, and with it, he tries to shake his nagging reservations about the food.  With one eye on the sky, he busies himself with his scrounging for firewood.  

Their island, he concludes after a few minutes of searching, is thoroughly miserable.  It is wet and nasty – the moment he steps off of the flat, grey rock they’d slept on that night, he sinks ankle-deep in a freezing bog.  Looking around, he’d seen three similar mud pits within two dozen paces.  

Not only that, but the brambles catch and snag at his clothing and reopen the long red cuts from the other day.  The bushes pile up on top of one another in giant tangles like dust bunnies, sometimes hidden by soft-looking ferns, ready to catch his hand in their snare should he reach for wood beneath their thorns.  The sky has remained a morose grey through the sagging trees.  Once, he thinks he’s found a path, but it’s only a slick track of mud from where a stone had rolled down the steep incline.  

Its one saving grace is the frankly surprising lack of dragons, aside from the menacing lightning beast that’d given them a rather frosty welcome.  He can’t imagine it’s like that everywhere, though.  Undoubtedly, other cliffsides are crawling with so many Gronckles one can hardly breathe without smelling dragonshit.  

Thinking back to the small, sagging village he’d glimpsed as they’d floated closer to the island, he can’t understand why anyone would want to live on such a pathetic little island.  

When at last he staggers back into their makeshift camp, Reiner is shivering beside a pair of flint stones he must’ve found.  Reiner grunts a greeting – he’s curled in on himself, thin arms wrapped around his knobby knees.  Bertholdt’s gut pulls sympathetically.  

“How’re you doing?” he murmurs, dumping the few dry logs he’d found besides them.  

“Cold as balls on this fuckin’ island,” Reiner snarls.  “Ain’t fucking fair, that this island is this fuckin’ cold.”

Bertholdt smiles.  “Ah, well, I think we should be lucky we’ve survived this long.”

He harrumphs.  Bertholdt opens his mouth to scold him, but Reiner says quickly, “I’ve been thinkin’, the reason we haven’t seen any dragons other than that…”

“The Skrill?” Bertholdt asks patiently.

Reiner nods.  “Yeah, that ‘un.  I reckon this might be its territory.  If that beast claimed this area, I wouldn’t want to camp my Terrible Terror ass here, either.”  

“That doesn’t explain the fish,” Bertholdt murmurs skeptically, setting the logs up for the fire.  

“Nah, but it’s something.”  Reiner watches Bertholdt carefully with bruised, bloodshot eyes.  “Hey, Bertl?”

He glances up from the logs for only a second, humming in response.  

Reiner’s icy eyes soften.  “I’m not going anywhere.  You know that, right?”

He pauses in his work to turn towards Reiner.  The candid glow of his eyes sends a flutter of warmth down to his stomach, a relief from the island’s bitter cold.  He reaches out and grabs Reiner’s cold, clammy hand.  

“I wouldn’t let you go, anyway,” Bertholdt murmurs a tad shyly.  Laughing self-consciously, he rubs at the back of his neck and admits, “I may or may not be glued to your hip for the next few months.  Sorry in advance.”

“I’ve got no problem with that.”  Reiner shuffles into Bertholdt’s lap.  Smiling, Bertholdt wraps his arms around his lover’s scrawny chest and pulls them every closer together.  

“I’m serious, though,” Bertholdt says quietly, pressing a tender kiss to the back of Reiner’s neck.  His scraggly, salty hair sticks to his lips and he tastes like sweat, but Bertholdt couldn’t care less.  He closes his eyes and breathes in Reiner’s comforting smell.

“I don’t ever want to see you this weak again,” he whispers, tears welling the corners of his eyes.  He clutches Reiner ever tighter, as if to let him go would be to return him to the unforgiving seas.  

“I don’t want to be this weak ever again,” he chuckles uneasily.  His hands slide overtop of Bertholdt’s, interlocking their fingers tightly.  

“Don’t you worry, though,” Reiner murmurs, kissing Bertholdt’s forearm, “I’m not so weak.  I’ll still beat up anyone who dares to mess with you.”

“You’d better not,” Bertholdt warns.  “You’re healing.  Anyway, it’s not like we’ve got a massive line of people that want my head.”

“True.”  Reiner nuzzles into Bertholdt’s shoulder.  “But if we did, I’d fight every one of them.  I’ll knock anyone down who even looks at you funny.”

“You couldn’t do squat,” Bertholdt chides, rolling his eyes.  

Reiner makes an indignant noise.  “I could too!  I can defend my prince even in this weakened state.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It is not!”

“I’d be happy to put it to the test for you,” an exasperated voice drawls from behind them.  

Bertholdt bolts upright.  Reiner spills onto the ground in a clumsy roll of limbs.  He scrambles on the rock, trying to force himself upwards.  Bertholdt whirls around, dropping into a fighting stance.  His hands curl into fists, lips peel into a ferocious snarl.  Fury ignites, bright and hot, in his chest.  

He whips his head around to face his attacker and looks right over them.  

A solid kick to his ankles knocks Bertholdt’s feet out from under him.  He hits the ground _hard_.  The breath knocks powerfully out of him.  Mewling in pain, Bertholdt rolls onto his back and gasps to refill his lungs.  The grey sky above swirls and shakes with his vision.  

Reiner roars furiously and throws himself at the attacker.  They catch him easily and hurl him aside as if he were a ragdoll.  Coughs wrack through Bertholdt’s body, but up he goes.  

Bertholdt knows he only has a moment to sway on his feet before the attacker knocks him back down.  He wastes it with stupid surprise at the other man’s minuscule size.  And so he is knocked viciously back to the ground with a powerful kick to the knee.  

Groaning, he pulls himself back up, but the attacker slams the heel of his boot into Bertholdt’s back.  With a pitiful yelp, he slams against the ground.  

“I’d say you’re both weak as shit,” the voice says disdainfully.  

Reiner is felled by another swift punch.  He topples backwards like a sack of bricks.  It makes an awful crack when his head hits the stone.  

“They just don’t make trespassers like they used to,” the attacker sighs boredly.  Reiner groans and pushes himself onto his arms.  A punishing blow slams him back against the stone.  

Bertholdt’s heart hammers in his chest.  Their outlook is not looking good.  Both of them had been knocked to the ground in seconds by the midget – even with their gross starvation and weakness, it’s a feat to behold.  A fighter, no doubt, has discovered them.  And the first impression hasn’t been excellent.

“How long’ve you been here, huh?” the stranger asks flatly.  “Found yourself a good lot of fish, didn’t you?”

“We didn’t mean any harm!” Bertholdt squeaks, pressing himself against the ground.  “Please, we’ve been lost at sea!”

“Does that count?” he asks boredly.  Their attacker wanders away from them both to toe at the firewood.  Bertholdt considers attacking him from behind for only a moment.  He and Reiner both had been dominated, and he doubts that whacking the man’s head will do any good.  Better to grovel and hope he brings food.  

“What count?” Reiner snarls.  

“Riding in on the back of a Boneknapper.”  He casts a steely glance over his shoulder.  “I don’t think it does.”

“Boneknapper?” Bertholdt yelps, bolting up onto his arms.  The man’s face blackens menacingly.  His eyes blaze silver with an unspoken threat as tangible as any words.  Submissively, he drops back to the ground.  

“Don’t play dumb,” he says coldly, turning away.  

“We-we’re not –” Bertholdt stammers.  

“Save your excuses.”  He swings his boot fiercely into Reiner’s side.  “Get up.  You’re going to meet the Chief.”

The man whirls on Bertholdt, but he scrambles to his feet before the punishing blow can be delivered.  He narrows his grey eyes, lips pursing as if he’d sucked on a sour lemon as Bertholdt soars up to his full height.  

“Both of you, follow me,” he says, curling his fingers in a terse “come on”.  Another unspoken threat gleams in his fierce eyes.   _He won’t be tolerating any funny business._

Bertholdt knows instantly that he’ll obey the little man without question.  

His gaze brushes against Reiner’s, where an unchecked anger still smolders.  Almost indiscernibly, Bertholdt shakes his head.  But the tension does not leave his companion.  

Hunching his shoulders meekly, Bertholdt follows in the footsteps of the attacker and sends a silent prayer to the gods that Reiner will do the same.

* * *

 

It isn’t that Armin doesn’t understand what is to love in flight.  

There are, after all, many amiable qualities that he himself will happily admit to enjoying.  The wind, the adrenaline, the weightlessness… it’s all rather freeing.  For someone like Eren especially, someone who feels trapped by the responsibilities of life, he can see how it would be addictive.  

It’s simply that Armin _doesn’t_ love it.  

Such an admittance is sacrilege, of course, sacrilege in its blackest, most blasphemous form on an island dependent on dragons’ wings.  Where they sing of the glories of flight, where a helmet is just as popular a look as wind-mussed hair.  Yes, Berk loves its flying, loves the competitive edge it garners against enemies of the island.  

Perhaps it’s why Armin never quite fit in.  

He never has been averse to flying.  A trust in the dragon and a trust in the dragon’s rider was all he ever required.  But there just wasn’t any joy in it.  The sky was lovely, the wind was cool and relaxing.  The dragons sometimes smelled and they rocked too much with flight to write anything.  Long flights are frankly boring to him.  

Eren certainly doesn’t think so.  The hours of empty skies haven’t put a damper in his cheerful humming or sunny smile.  Armin watches jealously as he taps out a melody onto Titan’s rack of horns, grinning like a fool.  His own dragon is sleeping somewhere on the supply bags.  

Left with only his mind to entertain himself, Armin leans back and stares up at the sky.  He leafs listlessly through topics for his mind to pursue, flipping dismissively past existentialism and the dread of responsibilities, ignoring the temptations of wistful daydreams.  His thoughts land on an even stickier subject – his eyes again fix on the back of Eren’s head.  

 _Emotions,_ he thinks, taking his lower lip contemplatively between his teeth, _complicate everything._

Things between him and Eren have been smooth and easy.  Eren had smiled and beckoned him onto Titan as he always has.  If he’d acted any different towards Armin, he hadn’t noticed it.  Eren’s as easygoing as ever, and nothing has changed.  

Except something has.  

Armin’s eyebrows knit together thoughtfully as he puzzles over it.  A different significance in daily routines, a fresh flutter of excitement during quotidian conversations.  Tingling when Eren touches his hand, warmth when he laughs at Armin’s jokes.  

Eren is as easygoing and as accepting of his feelings as ever.  To Eren, emotions are another inevitable facet of life he happily throws himself into the midst of.  There is nothing to fear or figure out there.  He is willing to let them roll over him like the relentless waves that erode a sandy shore, molding his being into whatever shape they desire.

But Armin is not.  

Between the two of them, there’s been a certain level of intimacy; it was inevitable not to have it, growing up together as they did.  But the thought of crossing the bridge laid out for him now?  The idea of continuing on the path he started?  Touching, holding, kissing?  To commit to something as fragile and impermanent as a relationship with Eren, his best friend – never has he considered a more terrifying notion.  

Perhaps he’s getting ahead of himself, though.  

A peck on the cheek in the dark does not equate Eren desiring a relationship.  

Something in Armin’s heart cinches.  Somehow, that thought is even worse.  

And there’s another smaller, more elusive fear that dances in the back of Armin’s subconscious.  Though he isn’t necessarily a participant, he understands the courting games.  He knows the definition of a rebound boy.  He comprehends what rebounding entails.  

Could Eren be his rebound from Marco…?

A relationship that never happened at all, admittedly, but Armin knows he’d been more than smitten with the more than oblivious rider.  He’d had all these fluttery, tingly, warming sensations around Marco.  But they came slowly, ebbing like a gentle tide.  With Eren, it was completely different.  The rapid change of interest, the floods of affection.  Could it be that Armin is merely channeling his frustrations with Marco to Eren?  Is all this just Armin rebounding?

It’s the most terrifying thought of all.  To use Eren, so generous and sweet beneath his wildness, when the other boy is so willing to offer up his golden heart?  

If Eren is even interested in anything more than a peck beneath the moonlight.  Armin still doesn’t know.  

His are the frustratingly stunted actions and thoughts of a lovesick teenager, this Armin knows.  For the first time wishes that perhaps he’d devoted himself a little more to the romance of his peers instead of his books during puberty.  Maybe then, he’d be less clumsy with such delicate affairs.  

Armin watches Eren stand up in the saddle to reach up and brush his hand against a cloud.  The other boy’s long, brown fingers cup the foggy whiteness.  His hair whirls handsomely around his face.  Despite likely having touched the clouds thousands of times, Eren’s green eyes glow with wonder.  An amazed smile spreads across his face.  

Armin’s heart thumps painfully.  

Dwelling on the mesh of barbed fear lodged in his stomach has done him no good.  In fact, Armin is sure of only one thing – a certainty that he hasn’t a clue what he’s to do.

* * *

 

In the face of misery, humans are prone to different reactions.  

After all, people have a basic need for happiness.  It’s essential for production, for interaction, for daily activity.  A happy village is a wealthy one, a wealthy village a happy one.  When that happiness is taken away, things tend to sour.  

Sometimes, it’s a malicious word spat over a shoulder on the streets.  When tensions are running high, people do stupid, stupid things to prove their dominance.  Arguments begin rattling the shingles on the building.  Things fall apart.  A dog kicked, a person sneered at, an old beggar harassed.  In cases like this, harmless bickering can become vicious fistfights on the streets.  

 _Is this directly because of Marco,_ Erwin wonders as his dragon hits the rooftop above the fight heavily, _or was it an inevitable downward spiral after so many good years that he just set in motion?_

Erwin hasn’t a clue.  

Upon the appearance of the Chief’s ferocious Titan Wing dragon, some spectators back away from the scene.  They tuck their faces away from him, but he brands each of their names in the back of his mind with an iron tool.  Some of those names he’s known since they were children on their mothers’ breast – it clenches his heart, to see them like this.  

The fight happening against the wall of the Bodt house doesn’t even falter.  From Njord’s mighty back, Erwin can’t see the rabble involved, but he can guess.  

Erwin swings a leg over Njord’s long neck and slips off to the ground.  His boots sink into the mud.  He stands up, spine ramrod straight, and hardens his expression.  A bellow worthy of the heroes of old thunders up from inside him.    

“ _HIT THAT BOY ONE MORE TIME AND I WILL HANG YOU BY YOUR HAMSTRINGS OFF THE CLIFFS OF FENRIR’S ARMPIT._ ”

When he presses his lips into a thin line, he notices his throat is unpleasant scratchy.  Erwin becomes even further annoyed.  

Instantly, the attacks spring off of their victim.  Their heads swing around fiercely like a pack of wild dogs to fight off the next opponent.  Erwin gets an immense kick of satisfaction at the horror and subsequent terror that flashes over their faces the moment they recognize him.  

“Erwin, sir, we, ah –” stammers one, quivering like a leaf in an autumn gale.  

Silencing him with a stony glare, Erwin strides past the gang of bullies towards the one still curled on the ground.  The moment he turns his back, he hears footsteps squelching.  Njord snarls ferociously, stopping them before they can even begin to flee.  His stomach yanks in grim satisfaction.  

Erwin pauses beside the one curled on the ground, hesitating.  There’s no telling how long they’d been beating up on him before Erwin’d caught wind of what was going on.  Bruises are beginning to mottle up his arms and neck, and a fat lump swells on his cheek.  He holds crumpled scrolls in his arms, desperately keeping them from the mud.  Even now, he flinches away from Erwin’s shadow.  

“Moblit,” Erwin calls.  “Moblit, can you stand?”

“Chief!” Hanji’s assistant squeaks, yanking his head up.  He blinks hopefully upwards.  “Chief, I’m sorry –”

“What for?” Erwin says gently, holding out his hand.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get here sooner.”

Moblit smiles shakily and takes Erwin’s hand.  He uncurls from the ground slowly, unsteadily.  Erwin takes his uncertain weight gladly, noticing how he favors the leg not pressed against the wooden wall of the house.  Cold mud drips down his trousers.  A breeze causes the man to shiver.  

“Thank you, sir,” Moblit says.  He pulls his hand away and stands uncertainly, clutching his scrolls tightly.  

“Do you need help reaching the infirmary?” Erwin asks.  

“Oh, I need to get these to Hanji –”

“Hanji can wait.”

“They must be waiting for me –”

“Hanji can wait,” Erwin repeats, steelier this time.  “Do you need help, Moblit?”

He startles at the sound of his name.  “Oh, no, sir, I think I can get there.”

“Good.”  He claps Moblit’s shoultder, minding his bruises.  “Get yourself patched up.  I’ll let them know what’s happened – they’ll understand.”

“Okay, sir.”  He nods meekly.  “Thank you, sir.”

“Of course.”  Erwin’s hand slips away.  “Get going.  I’ll deal with your attackers.”

Moblit glances at the gang of bullies hesitantly, as if he might say something.  He decides against it and tucks his head against his chest, hobbling down the narrow alleyway.  Erwin watches him go.  Simmering anger boils in his veins, hot and visceral.  His fist curls tightly, nails biting into the skin of his palm.  He is all too aware of how easy it’d be to knock one out with a punch.  All too aware of how much pleasure he’d get from one of their jaws breaking against his fist.  

The bullies’ faces now join those that’d watched and jeered, their cowardly sneers burned in his memory.  Bitter disappointment colors his thoughts as he recalls each name.  Turning slowly on those left behind, he inspects each guilty face.  His heart beats cold as ice in his chest.  

“I’ll admit, boys,” he says, coldly, angrily, “I’m trying real hard to find a reason not to beat you so hard you’ll wish you were Moblit.  Throw me a bone – why shouldn’t I?”

The boys cringe backwards, curling in on themselves.  Their wide eyes shine fearfully.  Only one stands resistant to his threat.  The others clump around him for protection, hiding behind his defiant glare.  Erwin’s gaze locks on his, and the boy’s eyes narrow.  Erwin’s alarm bells sound.   _Ringleader._

“He started it,” the boy says stubbornly.  “We were only following up, mistah.”  

Erwin regards him coldly.  “Did he now?  He messed with you, did he?  Sneered in the streets?  Come, Hugo.  Do tell what Moblit did to deserve broken ribs.”

“Mockin’ us, he was,” Hugo says.  “Saw those eyes.  Saw ‘em judging.  We mighta gotten carried away, but he started it.”

Erwin rolls his eyes up to the sky.  Perhaps it is his imagination, but Njord looks equally exasperated – his lids hang low over his bright green eyes, lips peeled back more out of disgust than valid threat.  He sighs heavily and looks back at the child.  

“That’s just not good enough, Hugo,” Erwin says quietly.  A small smile escapes him, pulling the corners of his lips up – he bows his head, the hood of his cloak casting a shadow over his eyes, and steps closer to the boys – they flatten themselves against the Bodt’s wooden wall, whimpering like week-old pups.  

“I’ll not be having Berk turn into a lot of savages, do you hear?” he says calmly.  

The boys stare meekly back, aside from the one sneering child.  

“DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

They squeal like pigs and jump further backwards.  Most stutter out “yes sirs” and “I heard yous” but some are only able to nod, snapping their heads up and down so violently they could snap at the hinges and fly off.  Behind him, Njord gives a low, thundering snarl.  

“No matter who says what,” he continues, voice again deadly quiet, “you must contain yourself, boys.  No matter if they look at you funny, no matter if they sneer at you, no matter how _wretched_ and _dishonorable_ they act – you mustn’t attack.”  His eyes narrow.  “Even if you want to.”  

One whines an apology.  The brand of his remorseful face softens ever so slightly in Erwin’s memory.  

“You’re supposed to be the best in all the seas,” Erwin seethes, gritting his teeth.  “The legacy of Berk, the noble dragon riders – does that mean nothing to you?!  Are you such scum that you turn your fists on your fellows while real enemies lie beyond the seas?!  Is this what you are?!”

The ringleader’s gaze at last drops to Erwin’s boots.  “No, sir,” he says glumly.  

“How am I supposed to believe you now, Hugo?” Erwin exclaims in frustration.  “How am I supposed to have faith in any of you?  Do you think a warrior alive wants a bully who bloodies his own at his back?  I certainly do not.”

“We’re sorry,” says another.  

“We’ll accept whatever punishment we receive,” the ringleader says, mustering his strength to bring a rather defeated glare back up to meet Erwin’s gaze.  

Erwin regards him, pressing his lips together.  His disgust roils like a turbulent sea in his stomach – the splatter of blood against the Bodt house only enrages him further.  But a decision like this requires a level head.  He has every ability to be sure that none of them ever end up behind any warrior’s back.  

Oh, and _they know it_.  He takes a sort of malicious pleasure from seeing their knees knock together and their shoulders hunch.  To prove their strength was what they sought when they struck the first blow.  And he has the power to strip them of every title.  

Just for a few more malicious moments, Erwin lets them fear.  He lets them picture the dishonor they’d face.  The dishonor their actions more than likely should bestow upon them.    

“Chief!”

Levi’s voice breaks the tension of the scene.  Gritting his teeth, Erwin drags his attention away from the bullies.  Staggering towards him through the alleyway is a strange, bedraggled party.  The tension seeps ever so slightly out of the bullies’ shoulders – Erwin whips his head back around, takes great pleasure from watching them jump back again.  

“You’re mucking out the dragon stables for a month,” Erwin says out of the corner of his mouth.  “Get out of my sight.”

The boys waste no time in their staggering flight.  Njord hisses spitefully after them.  Erwin watches the ringleader flee for a few moments, then turns to face his Levi.  

A scrawny giant of a man cowers over Levi’s shoulders, bony shoulders hunched and hands nervously intertwined.  His sunken eyes watch Njord terrifiedly.  Levi knocks another man to the mud at Erwin’s feet.  They hit the ground with a low groan, and make no move to get up.  

“Greetings, love,” Erwin says with a chuckle.  “And who are these men?”

“Trespassers.”  He jerks a head towards the woodlands.  “I found them on the Far Cliffs.  Think they brought the Boneknapper with them.”

* * *

 

The realization comes quietly to me.  

It drifts peacefully in and out of my mind without fuss or preamble.  There is no great jumble of thoughts, no rushing cacophony of confused questions, no building crescendo that screeches to an abrupt, final halt.  It only comes.  Like an autumn leaf rising to the top of a placid pond and calmly sinking again.  

There isn’t much of a follow-up, either.  No bolting upright in bed, no denial.  No yelling or screaming or blushing or drama.  Only a soft, engulfing warmth starting in my chest and flooding outwards until my entire body thrums happily.  

The only way you could perhaps see I’d reached a pivotal epiphany would be if you could possibly discern it from my expression, or from the way I shift in his bed to face him, resting my chin on crossed arms.  Maybe it could be heard in the heavy, contented sigh that echoes from my chest, or the happy droop of my eyes.  Perhaps my sleepy smile would tell you.  

One of those things caught Jean’s attention – he looks up from his work, bent over the table and the overlapping strips of leather, and meets my gazes.  His eyes glow curiously.  I smile broader, struck more strongly with the notion.  

_I like Jean Kirschtein._

_More than that._ My smile turns giddy.   _I like-like Jean Kirschtein._

Something about my expression must be amusing, for he rolls his eyes up to the heavens and shakes his head.  My heart flutters a tiny bit.  Sighing happily, I let my head fall sideways and nestle tighter into the blankets.  

There’s the best sort of contentedness that fills the air in these long moments of my convalescence.  A sense of camaraderie between Jean and I.  Unlike days before, he doesn’t actively avoid me when I’m awake.  In fact, he seems to try and seek out our time together.  

We hardly ever speak to one another, absorbed in a companiable silence most days.  He scurries around the cavern, involved in mundane tasks.  I watch him in silence.  I help whenever I can, but he never seems to need me.  And, unlike before, he enjoys my company.  

Sometimes, he’ll wrap me in a blanket and give me the crucial task of stirring soup simmering on the fire.  Other times, he’ll check my temperature while I sharpen his kitchen knives.  Mostly, he’ll have me stand in the center of the room while he sizes up the leather that will someday become my armor.  

That’s how he spends most of his time.  Working on the leather strewn across the desk in the corner, his whiskey-gold eyes gleaming by the light of a candle.  

And when I began to regain my strength, he sat on the pillows watching over me as I attempted the first few feeble exercises.  He smiled over at me as I playfully wrestle with Orochi.  If I move to the mouth of the cavern to crudely sketch the fantastic atmosphere of the Bewilderbeast’s den – _how Armin would love it here_ – he swaddles me in blankets and never wanders far.  

A few times, he curled up next to me and watched me draw.  My fingers, already clumsy with anything but a weapon, shook even more under his scrutiny.  His hands are anything but clumsy – after several pathetic drawings, he laid his fingers overtop of mine.  I relaxed and let him guide my hand.  Transfixed, I watched the graceful, swooping circles come to life over the parchment.  

“Wow,” I’d whispered in awe.  “That’s… gorgeous.  You could be a calligrapher.”

He’d shrugged indifferently.  “I have nothing to write about.”

“I doubt that’s true, with all that you’ve seen,” I’d laughed ruefully.  “You could probably write novels on all the secrets of the world.  You’re kind of amazing like that.”

And there he’d ducked his head away to hide a bashful smile, and that had been that.  

I’ll say something to him every now and then just to see him smile.  He’ll do the same for me.  It’s peaceful, it’s wonderful, and it’s all so very quiet.   

So it makes sense that the realizations of my affection would come quietly too.  I watch him work the leather through a crescent of vision.  A musing smile spreads gently over my face.  

In hindsight, it isn’t remotely surprising.  I should’ve known I was a goner the moment I woke one morning to see him and Orochi tussling in one corner.  Jean had been laughing like a little boy, trying foolishly to hold Orochi’s powerful neck in a headlock, and my dragon had been grating his guttural laughter.  

My heart had melted.  Any lingering doubts about Jean had been obliterated in that moment.  The way to my heart is most definitely through my dragon.  

In the crescent of my vision, I catch a glimpse of movement.  I peek one eye open lazily to see that Jean had laid down his tools and propped his head up on a hand.  The flickering candlelight casts him in princely golden tones, but despite the regality, the armor sheathing his cautious heart clatters to the ground around him.  Softness lingers on his expression, even as our eyes meet.  His dopey smile sends my heart tapping.  

Humming happily, I let my eyes droop closed and nestle back into the furry blankets.  The tension seeps from my shoulders.  Here, beneath the blankets and Jean’s gaze, it’s snug and safe.  Unfazed by the passing time, I decide that sleeping the day away is amazing so long as Jean is here.  

“Marco?”  

Humming, I pull my head from the nest of blankets and blink sleepily towards him.  

“I’m happy with you here.”  

I chuckle against the blankets, an earnest smile pulling my lips upwards.  “I’m happy here too, Jean.”  

He hums thoughtfully at this, and we lapse into silence again.  I curl up into the blankets, engulfed in a feeling of happiness, of peace, of security.  The familiarity of oncoming sleep settles into me slowly.  My muscles relax and I sigh, letting my eyes droop closed.  

The silence is broken, this time by words so quiet I’m not sure I catch them.  

“I don’t want you to go,” Jean says timidly.  

The realization that _I don’t want to go either_ hits me like a punch to the gut.  Every muscle in my body goes as taut as a bowstring.  Panicking, I roll over and pretend I hadn’t heard.

* * *

 

Erwin’s eyes narrow.  He stares impassively down at the starved man at his feet.  “Is that true?  You brought that monster to our shores?”

The man’s one blue eye is filled with fire.  His lips prick in a weak snarl, but he says nothing.  

The taller one staggers forward, crying out, “We’re sorry, sir, we didn’t mean to trespass, we didn’t know!  We’re so sorry – so hungry, we didn’t think that we would be hurting nobody –”

Erwin holds up his hand, and they silence instantly.  His eyes narrow at the instinctive response.   _Military training, then._

“What is your name?” he asks calmly.

“Bertholdt, sir,” he squeaks, straightening up.  “Bertholdt Hoover.”

“Why, Bertholdt, did you bring a Boneknapper to our island?” Erwin asks, fixing the boy with a steely glare.  A nervous sweat breaks out on the other’s brow.  

“We didn’t bring it here, honest –” he whispers, ducking his head.  

“So, you, what?”  Erwin tilts his head to one side.  “Sprouted wings?  Flew yourselves here?”

Bertholdt cringes.  “No, sir, we came by water –“

“There were no signs of crafts anywhere along the shore,” Levi inputs.  The man pressed against the mud growls, lifting his head.  The sole of Levi’s boot presses him back down.  

“That’s a conflicting story, Bertholdt,” Erwin says coldly.  His face hardens into a scowl.  “I don’t like dishonesty.  I’ll give you another chance to give it to me straight.  Understood?”

Bertholdt nods vigorously up and down.  “Yes, sir, see, sir, we weren’t on a raft or anything – we were on an ice floe, it broke off an iceberg – we didn’t have any food or nothing, we were floating for days, weeks – we were so hungry, we didn’t know any better – I’m so sorry, we’ll leave immediately if it’s what you want, we didn’t mean to cause trouble, but the ice was melting out from under us and the Boneknapper was following us –“

“So you did bring the Boneknapper here?” Levi scowls.  

“He never said we didn’t!” the one on the ground snarls.  

He shakily yanks himself upright.  The few muscles clinging tautly to his bones quiver with effort.  The broad set of his shoulders betrays past strength lost to his starvation.  A warrior’s ferocity burns in this man’s eyes.  With each shuddering breath that clouds in front of his face, the smoldering kernel of anger garners more and more respect from Erwin.  

“Oh?” Erwin says, watching the warrior’s face carefully.  

“Yeah.”  His lip curls.  “Only reason we came to this piece-of-shit island was to get away from that bastard.  Anything you do to us is better than being eaten by that asshole, so do your worse.”

“Might as well throw that one to the Boneknapper,” Levi lilts.  His eyes gleam dangerously.  “Motherfucker tried to jump me on the hike over.”

Bertholdt croaks fearfully.  He leans forward, bending over the warrior like the benevolent branch of a willow tree.  In any other context, Erwin would’ve found it amusing.  

Erwin sighs heavily.  “Well, you two have put me in a real predicament, boys.”  

“What?” Bertholdt quavers.

He presses his lips together in a thin line.  “If you hadn’t attacked Levi on the way here, I would’ve been pleased to give you boys a few good meals and a ship home.  But now you’ve got to stay for a mite bit longer.  And as much as Levi might want to throw you to the Boneknapper, that simply isn’t how we do things on our ‘piece-of-shit island’.

“So, boys, for now” – Erwin squares his shoulders and offers a frosty smile – “our little village of Berk will have to suffice.”

Bertholdt jerks as if he’d been shot.  He yelps loudly and falls onto his backside.  Levi whips around, grumbling, but the man skitters away across the mud – the back of his head hits the Bodt house with a solid smack.  

Dazed and panicked, he scrambles into a crouch.  When Levi again tries to approach, he holds a warning hand out and curls his lip.  

The warrior attempts to stand, twisting around in the mud to face his companion.  A frown mars his features.  “Bertl, what –“

“Berk, Reiner,” the other man squeaks.  “Berk!  Do you remember…?”

The warrior pauses for a moment, his mouth hanging open as he thinks.  Shock slams into him a few seconds later.  His eyes widen with an expression Erwin curiously identifies as fear.  

And then a name slips from the warrior’s lips, a name Erwin never would’ve expected.  It’s a slap in the face, as blunt and shocking as a bucket of icy water thrown over his head.  His lips part.  He glances up to Levi in hopes of finding security, but his shock is mirrored in Levi’s gaze.  

The sound of an old wooden door being thrown open jars Erwin from his stupor.  Two heavy boots clunk against the porch of the Bodt house, at last emerging to behold the conflict occurring outside her dwelling.  A pair of weary eyes, cold as ice and hard as stone, fiercely demand the warrior’s gaze.  

“What’s this you said about my son?” Ms. Ederne Bodt says.

* * *

 

From the distance, she almost thinks it looks beautiful.  

Its long, white body cuts through the air like a slender whip.  No red eyes, no needles of teeth.  The terrible glow of fire in its jaws is a distant twinkle, like a firefly from the summers of her childhood.  Pearly scales cast in tones of silver by the soft moon and tones of red by the inferno below.  

The screams of those caught in the blaze, those burning in their own skins, do not reach her.  Only those of the beast echo over the black waters, and they more resemble whistling keens than the earsplitting shrieks that still rattle in her ears.  

An explosion ruptures the hull of the head ship.  The one she would’ve stood proudly at the wheel of.  How cruel is fate, to grant those who threw her overboard the pleasure of her punishment.  To sic the hellbeast coming for her hide upon them after they went through such measures to be rid of her.  

But seeing the explosion and the black figures of men flinging themselves overboard… Annie feels almost nothing.  

Saphira croaks nervously.  Her wings shuffle by her side.  Cautiously, Annie rests a hand on the neck of the beast that’d saved her from the icy waters.  The dragon calms immediately, dropping her head into Annie’s lap.  She purrs loudly and almost seems to smile.  

After her treacherous crew had thrown her overboard, loyal Saphira had snatched her Annie flown the pair of them to this island.  Darkness had fallen slowly over the open ocean as they’d watched the botched armada flee, but not it hadn’t been slow enough for her ship to completely disappear over the horizon.  Intelligent as the Screaming Death may be, it has no way of knowing that she’s no longer on board.

Annie’s narrowed eyes follow the path of the lithe Screaming Death as it sweeps low over the burning wreckage.  The soft trills that echo across the open waters grow angrier.  Its graceful soaring becomes more erratic and dangerous.  

Her disappearance will throw it off for a little while.  The beast is only so clever, after all, and it may take some time for it to catch her scent again.  Perhaps she’ll be able to escape it entirely.

Annie has a feeling that it won’t simply forget about her.  

Saphira gurgles and presses her nose into Annie’s palm.  It nuzzles her anxiously.  The fires dance in its bulbous eyes.  The comfort it seeks is foreign to Annie; she knows not how to offer it, not how to reassure this trembling creature.  However, she feels she owes it to the dragon, at least. 

Hesitantly, rubs her thumb stiffly back and forth against its blunt muzzle.  The beast seems to take comfort from that, as meager as the gesture is. 

Across the water, the Screaming Death throws back its head with a frustrated screech.  Tail like a pinwheel in the wind, it soars off over the horizon, heading stupidly south.  Once it disappears in the distance, Saphira glides silently away.  Neither she nor Annie spare a final glance to the burning ships left to sink to the bottom of the ocean.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like I guess Hugo is older in this? I don't know he's a stupid teenager for sure.
> 
> I'm going to be later than usual responding to anything you have to say to me because I'll be on vacation for a bit, but please, I encourage you to send me a message at my [tumblr](do-not-go-gentl.tumblr.com) to make sure I see it!
> 
> LAST BUT NOT LEAST. VERY EXCITING NEWS. We've got our very first [Jean](http://pololotp.tumblr.com/post/140938250462/bad-quality-photo-of-jean-from-i-am-da-trenchs) and [ Marco and Orochi ](http://smutindevelopment.tumblr.com/post/141615507081/heyyyy-im-back-so-i-found-this-amazing-jeanmarco) fanart!!! Go shower the artists with affection because they deserve all of it. 
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Monstrous Nightmare](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Monstrous_Nightmare)  
> -[Deadly Nadder](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Deadly_Nadder)


	10. Stormcutter

Eren’s always loved the lively sprawl of a good traders’ den.  

Never, ever has he found a boring one, but some are just absolutely _incredible_. The thriving of a noisy, crowded, crime-riddled mess of markets and stalls that all seem to have one massive heartbeat, all the whores and beggars and merchants and thieves and mercenaries dancing to one colorful rhythm – that is what he _loves_.  

There’s always something happening in a good traders’ den.  Usually, there’s many things happening.  Blink-and-you’ll-miss-it things happening with one main stage for a select few events like the most exciting theater play.  

Dreki Kló is no disappointment.  Eren can’t help grinning from ear to ear as a running woman with a dagger in hand accidentally collides with a man beside him so hard they both crash into the waves.  Bubbles froth upwards, a few limbs breach the surface.  Only the woman emerges again, but she seems to have lost her dagger.  

The air smells of piss and sweat and ale.  Eren breathes in deeply and grins all the more broadly.  

“Are we sure we should leave our dragons here?” Armin says nervously, clinging to Mikasa as the woman drags herself back onto the docks.  

“Man, we’re the only people using the dragon landing strip,” Connie snorts.  

“Plus, we paid the dragon-watcher to take care of them,” Sasha says with a dismissive flip of her hair.  

“That’s not much of a reassurance,” Armin whispers.  

Eren eyes the vulture of a man.  His sleazy smile has all of three teeth remaining, and dirty gold chains drape around his drooping, folding skin.  Those beady, sunken eyes flick quickly over them, clammy fingers knotted together like a scheming rat.  He doesn’t really blame Armin for not trusting him, but…

“Ah, Armin, quit ya naggin’,” grins Ymir, clearly enjoying herself every bit as much as Eren.  “This in’t the place for that!  They’re fuckin’ dragons – they can look after themselves better than any damn watchdog!”

“And what else can we do?” Mikasa says calmly.  “You won’t find a more reliable place in all the island.”

“Ya, the four feet of it there actually are,” Ymir snorts.  “They don’t call this a floating market for nothin’, princess.”

Eren beams out at the miles of docks interconnected by rotting bridges, flimsy rafts, and logs thrown across gaps.  Dreki Kló is very quickly becoming his new favorite trader’s den.  

Mikasa calls his name with a touch of urgency and beckons them all closer around her.  The docks groan from the concentrated weight of them combined.  

“We need to cover as much ground as we can before dark,” Mikasa says calmly.  “We can rent a place at an inn to continue our search, but I’d rather avoid it.  We’ve got an entire day.  It should be enough.”

“Splitting up will help us cover more ground,” Ymir growls in a low, almost sultry voice.  Eren eyes her suspiciously – he’s almost certain she wants an excuse to make a break for the brothel.  

“Let’s split off into pairs!” Sasha suggests hopefully.  Ymir’s face falls, but Armin looks rather relieved.  

“I call Sasha!” Connie yelps, leeching himself to her side.  

“Alright!”  They slap an exuberant high five.  “I’m going to have to stop to get spices for Berk’s secret soup, though.  And like, three courses – I’m famished.”

“So long as you’re cool with trying on armor with me,” Connie offers.  “Scale mail is the fucking coolest, don’t you think?”

“Don’t get too distracted,” Mikasa admonishes.  “Ymir, that counts for you too.  I’ll bash your nose in if I see your ‘I just got laid’ smirk.”

“Fine,” she sighs.  “But don’t expect me to partner up with knock-knees over here.”

Eren seizes his opportunity.  He slings an arm around Armin’s shoulders as casually as he can, praying to all the Gods that his heartbeat isn’t as loud as he hopes it is.  Almost automatically, Armin leans his weight into him.  

“I got Armin,” he says, smiling.  

Mikasa’s eyes are flat.  “Eren.”

He holds up his other hand for her.  “No funny business in this town, I swear it.”

She watches him suspiciously.  “No justice-enforcing?  No policing?  No picking fights with anybody who looks at you funny?”

Eren considers this.  “Well.  I’m not going to let anybody get raped when I’m around.  Or murdered.  But otherwise, I’m a changed man.”

“I’ll keep him on a short leash,” Armin promises, smiling tenderly up at him.  Eren’s brain turns to mush.  A dopey answering smile curls over his face.  He wonders distantly how Armin can be so terrified of a place like this and yet so at ease with him.  

He isn’t sure, but he really fucking likes it.  

“Ugh, ya’re grossing me out with your boy germs,” Ymir groans.  “Princess, forgive me for wantin’ tah go my own path.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, either,” Mikasa says crisply.  She claps Ymir’s shoulder – in the gesture is just the slightest touch of the sisterly affection it that usually such actions are steeped in.  For Mikasa, the slightest touch is a lot.  

Ymir grins just as affectionately back, cuffing Mikasa roughly in return.  “Aye, there’s a good girlie.  East side’s mine – I got a 'nonymous tip.  I’ll flirt with the lady vendors, see what they’ve got tah tell.  If they’ve got any secrets, we’ll find ‘em.”

“We’ll take the heart of the market!” Sasha yelps.  “We call it!”

“I can talk a bard up like nobody’s business,” Connie vows.  “Drunkards are also pretty loose-lipped.”

“Not very observational, though,” Sasha points out cheekily.  “I’m a pretty girl with great teeth in a town where dental hygiene is unheard of to most folks.  I’ll have them eating out of my hand.”

Connie seems troubled by this, but she takes his hand and charges brazenly forward.  The crowd swallows them moments later – even if he tried, Eren couldn’t distinguish them from the liveliness of lowlifes bustling to and fro.  

“Damn,” he complains with a sigh.  “They got the best place!”

“I’m okay with them getting the best place,” Armin squeaks.  

Mikasa’s lips quirk.  “I’ll take the west end, then, Eren.  Our dragon-watcher said that there are a few reputable shops with maps and trinkets on the east side – why don’t you join Ymir there?”

“Hey,” she protests.  “I ain’t playin’ babysitter.”

“No, Eren is.  If you’ve got a tip, then we should concentrate our forces more there anyway.”

Harrumphing, Ymir slings her bag of metal wares for trade over one shoulder.  She pauses for half a second to nod respectfully towards the dragon-watcher and then marches into the crowd.  

Even after she joins the masses, Eren can make her broad shoulders out – Ymir is used to the bustle and knows how to hold herself.  They split like rats from the path of a tomcat before her.  No matter how much time he spends in traders’ dens, he has a feeling he’ll never garner that same instant respect.  

“You take care, alright?” Mikasa murmurs to Armin.  Her soft voice pulls Eren’s attention back to the pair of them.  

“Yeah, I’ll try,” he says, mustering a brave smile.  

“You don’t have anything valuable in your pockets, do you?” Eren double checks.  “Everything secured in the dragons’ packs?”

“Yeah.”  Armin shrugs.  “I’ve hardly got anything but maps.”  

Eren’s brow furrows.  “Nothing to trade?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got…”  Armin’s fingers fumble with the latch of a worn leather satchel.  “A few old books…  I read them as a kid, but now…  They were just collecting dust back on Berk…”

“Oh?”  He tilts his head to one side.  “What’re you looking to get?”

“Well, I guess…”  He lets out a short, amused laugh.  “To get a few new books to collect dust back on Berk.  After I read them, of course.”  

Eren claps his shoulder, smiling.  “Then let’s find a place that trades books first, alright?”

Armin’s eyes shine as he agrees.  

Resting a reassuring hand on Armin’s shoulder, he turns them towards the market and enters the fray.

* * *

 

Dreki Kló, Eren discovers, appeals to more than just face-value.  

While the labyrinth of soggy stalls with colorful flags, silks, and mobiles hanging from lamp pole to lamp pole are nice, the dead bodies bobbing in the dark, sewage-filled waters between the separate lengths of docks are perfectly macabre, and each of the merchants are uglier, pushier, and smellier than the last, there’s more to it.  

It isn’t that the people are kind, because they’re not.  It isn’t that there’s a special beauty to these streets, because they’re probably just as hideous even on a good day.  It isn’t that the sun shines here or that the wind blows cool or that it’s even that pleasant a place to be.  

But the items the merchants are selling have actual quality.  

And they’re not ridiculously expensive, either.  

Because of Armin’s preferences, perhaps Eren’s been exposed only to the cream of the crop, but he thinks not.  

They’ve spent the day wandering through expansive stalls of old, dusty tomes stored in boxes to keep them safe from the salt water.  Eren’s entertained himself by dragging thieves out of under tables and throwing them out of stands, pinning drunkards against fragilely crafted walls for interrogation, and giving his flustered opinions when a gypsy woman wraps Armin’s wrists in delicate, flashing bangles.  

Armin looked good.  He looked really good.  

A few times, he’s glimpsed Sasha stealing food off of vendor’s tables when they looked away.  Otherwise, there’s been no sign of their partners in crime.  

That worries him a little bit.  He hopes that they’ve found more than him.  Because unless they’re wondering whether or not the survivors of the disaster drunk themselves to death?  He didn’t find squat.  

Now the sun hangs low in the sky like a weary dragon’s eye and he and Armin wander the docks in search of their companions.  They’ve been gradually making their way back over to the dragon deck, but it’s been slow.  Eren’s feet hurt from walking and his nose burns from prolonged exposure to the foul concoction of smells.  His shoulders ache from being slammed into more times than he can count.  The number of fleeing thieves with no concept of personal space has been really astounding.  

The one good thing is that Armin hasn’t left his side.  Deep down, Eren knows it’s because he’s terrified of everything around them, but he’d like to believe it’s more.  

Eren steals a glance down at the boy huddled against his arm.  Those bright eyes flick intelligently from person to person, evaluating each one carefully.  They’re eerily calm, placid as an undisturbed pond, even now when he trembles against Eren’s side. 

“Ymir!” Armin cries suddenly, bolting to the tips of his toes.  He waves his hands frantically in the air above his head.  

Eren follows his gaze to a small vendor on the very last dock.  With all her usual burly grace, Ymir swivels lazily around and lifts her head.  A wicked smirk spreads over her face as quickly as a knife slash.  Standing upright, she waves leisurely back, gesturing them over.  

Hurriedly, both Armin and Eren pick their way across the docks towards her.  Eren’s heart beats a little faster with the hope that Ymir’d found something he hadn’t.  

She waits for them in silence, leaning her elbows onto the table of the stall.  The position sticks her ass in the air and displays the massive double-headed battleaxe strapped on her back, gleaming proudly in the dim sunlight.  Eren’s eyes narrow – she’s either flirting or threatening.  Likely, a bit of both.  He silently resolves to keep his guard up.  

“Armin!” she greets gutturally, standing upright.  “Eren!  Boys!  Haven’t seen your pretty faces in a while!”

“Pretty faces?” Armin echoes with a bemused chuckle.  “Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it,” she says, slapping Armin roughly on the shoulder.  In that moment, her eyes lift to Eren’s.  Something flashes in her gaze – something cold, something steely.  His guard slams all the way up.  

“Kitten,” Ymir drawls, “I’d like ya tah meet two adorable members o’ my tribe – Eren and Armin.  Two biggest knucklefucks on the face o’ this world.”

Her hands snake forward and grasp firmly at Eren and Armin’s scruffs.  She shoves them out in front of her like mutts on display.  Confused, Eren blinks down at a pretty blonde girl seated between two massive dragon skulls.

“Oh!” she says, sounding surprised.  Big blue eyes blink benignly up at him.  “Hello!”

Armin offers a shy hello.  Eren’s cheeks flush red as she continues to stare at them, obviously amused.  He growls, wriggling from Ymir’s iron grip.  He slams the heel of his boot into hers for good measure, scowling blackly.    

Whirling on Ymir, he snarls, “Why’d ya do that?”

She smirks smugly.  “I was showin’ ya’ pretty faces to Krista here.  No reason tah get so snappy.”

She drops Armin gently back to the deck and rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder when he stumbles.  It slides away the moment he stands upright, but Eren doesn’t miss that it was there.  Glumly, he decides to forgive her, instead turning the heat of his irritation upon the new girl.  

“Hi!” she greets again, beaming from ear to ear.  She sticks out a hand over her table, which glistens a thousand colorful jewels.  “I’m Krista!”

Eying the dragon scales across her table suspiciously, Eren takes her hand.  “Eren.  Eren of Berk.”  

“Nice to meet you, Eren of Berk.”  Her grip is firm, but her fingers are soft.   _Daisy-picker._ “And you’re Armin?”

He nod shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.  “Y-yes, that’s me.”

“Aye, they came here with me,” Ymir says, reclining back across the dragon scales.  “You two find anythin’ other than those pretty bracelets, Armin?”

“They are really pretty!” Krista chirps appreciatively.  

Armin thanks her in a bashful voice, a lovely pink blush spreading over his cheeks.  Then, to Ymir, he adds, “But no, we didn’t find anything.  We don’t think Connie or Sasha did either – I don’t even know if there’s much to be found.”

Ymir scowls down at her giant, blistered hands, half-covered in leather and steel gauntlets.  “Bullshit.  I refuse to believe that.”

“Me too,” Eren harrumphs, crossing his arms over his chest.  “No fuckin’ way he just disappeared off the face of the world.”

Krista glances curiously between them, her expression carefully neutral.  “You’re looking for someone…?”  

“Aye – o’ at least I was, before I got distracted by your pretty face,” Ymir says smoothly.  “Don’t fret, kitten, wasn’t goin’ anywhere with any o’ it – no one’s seen hide nor hair o’ my coz since he got in a wreck a lil’ while ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she laments sincerely.  “I hope you find him soon – is there anything I could do to help?”

“That… depends… on what it is you _do_ ,” Armin says slowly, running a finger along the scales.  “Are you a dragon hunter?”

Her eyes go wide with horror.  “Mercy, _no._  Those who take a blades to innocent dragons are terrible, awful people.  No, I get all my wares from a dragon-friendly source.  Not a single one of my goods has caused the harm of any dragon – or animal, even.  It’s all very humane.”

“That’d explain why you’re far from the center,” Eren mutters ruefully.  

“What do you sell?” Armin asks, ignoring Eren.  “Just… scales?”

“Molted scales, mostly,” she says with an honest smile.  “People use them in jewelry and clothing, they’re very flashy and cheaper than gemstones.  Occasionally, I have pearls, too, and herbs.  The best thing I can offer you, though, are my skulls.”

“Skulls?!”  Ymir grins with all her teeth.  “Sweetheart, ya keep getting’ better ‘nd better.”

“Hush, you,” Krista says, nudging Ymir with a roll of her eyes.  “And yes, skulls.  The same dragon supplier carves designs into dragon skulls he finds.  You can see the Snafflefang ones from where you’re standing” – she gestures loosely towards the massive heads on either side of her – “but here’s a Terrible Terror skull, to show you the intricacy.”

She turns around to find it, bending over to rifle pointlessly through bags.  Ymir practically purrs with happiness; she doesn’t even bothering to hide the way her gaze lingers.  Judging from Krista’s pleased smile when she straightens back up, spurring the freckled woman’s libido had been the intent.  

“Here you are,” she says, sliding the skull between the bags of scales.  “Hand-carved.  He said the symbols are traditionally Nordic, but I forget what that one means.  Maybe you know?”

Eren grabs the little skull – it fits neatly into the palm of his hand.  Turning it over, he admires the fantastic craftsmanship that went into the tiny piece of art.  Artful symbols swirl over the forehead and down the nose, the depth and thickness of the lines changing across the cheeks, but always symmetric; feeling the holes gently knicked into the surface, Eren knows that no Viking made this, despite its symbols.  Only a daisy-picker would have hands gentle enough to do this.  

“Protection,” Eren murmurs, tracing the curls on the forehead.  “All sorts of symbols bringing protection.”

“That’s some fine craftsmanship,” Ymir whistles, impressed.  “Who’s work is this, eh?”

Krista shakes her head regretfully.  “That’s a bit of middleman confidentiality, I’m afraid.  But, Ymir, you’d know all about craftsmanship, wouldn’t you?”

“Would I?” Ymir chuckles, tilting her head to one side.  

“Well, you said you were a blacksmith.”  Krista shrugs, smiling angelically.  “And you sound like you’re from the City of Steel.  So you’re probably better than any of the sorry blacksmiths in this sad port.”

Ymir’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.  “City o' Steel, ya say?”

“Your accent, it’s different than Eren’s and Armin’s,” she says, batting her eyelashes.  “You sound like you’re from the mainland – you sound like you’re from Aurolian?”  

Ymir’s eyes glint.  “Smart girlie, aren’t cha?  Not many people nail my accent down so quick.  My pa was the blacksmith from the mainland, my ma was the blacksmith from the rainy ol’ isle of Berk.  Spent half o’ my childhood in drownin’ in my own skin and the other half in a never-ending nightmare.”

“Don’t have the best memories from the mainland?” Krista says sympathetically.  “I can relate.”

Ymir’s grin is dark.  “Oh, I bet you can, girlie.”

“Excuse me,” Armin interrupts, dipping his hands into a bag filled with raindrop-shaped blue scales, “but why can’t you tell us who your supplier is?”

Krista shifts uncomfortably.  “Well, partially because they don’t want me too.  Also because I’ve got to make a living.  If I go around blabbing too much, everyone will be selling these skulls.”

“Oh?” Armin prompts, raising his eyebrows.  

She shrugs.  “Those scales you’ve got, they’re pretty, and I’m the only one to offer them here.  But not many people use them anyway.  No, people want to mount a fearsome dragon skull over their fireplaces or on their ships.  I’ve got the best around.  If I lose that, I lose my livelihood.”

Armin seems satisfied with that.  He goes back to happily combing through the burlap bags of scales.  They make soft, clinking noises as they trickle through his fingers.  

“But how do we know for sure that you got those scales humanely?” Eren challenges, resting the fragile Terror skull back on the table.  “You could be lying.”

“You’re just going to have to take my word for it,” she says, shrugging unapologetically.  “Sorry.”

Eren’s brow furrows.  He doesn’t like the answer but he doesn’t know how to respond to it, either.  

“So, Kitten, what brought ya tah a shithole like this?” Ymir purrs.  “Surely ya deserve the sparklin’ shores o’ the south…”

Krista’s shoulders tense up ever so slightly.  “I prefer the north, actually,” she says casually.

“Eh?”  Ymir’s eyebrows rise knowingly.  “We’ve got a kindred spirit, girlie.  Ain’t nothing like these dragon-riddled coves, is ‘ere?”

“Not that I’ve found,” she says, more at ease.  

Armin’s hands freeze in the mouth of one of Krista’s burlap pouches.  His eyes go wide with shock, lips parting in a small O of – surprise?  Horror?  Eren can’t tell.  

Every muscle in his body goes taut as a bowstring.  Instinctively, his hand moves to the hilt of his sword.  Ymir shifts her weight so minutely that the vendor would never notice it – but Eren does, he recognizes her subtle hackles raising.  But she smiles and distracts Krista without so much as a glance towards Armin.  

Armin’s gaze flickers up to meet Eren’s for half a second.  A heavy stone settles in his belly – beneath his panicky jitters, Armin’s eyes glow with a cold wrath.  Eren’s fist clenches around the hilt of his sword.  

Turning back to the pouch, Armin tugs at the strings with trembling hand.  The mouth of the bag grows wider and wider until the sunlight gleams dimly on the items within.  Eren’s vision tunnels.

Armin dips a hand in the dark scales.  Each one’s dull luster catches the light.  Smooth and flat, slightly concaved, the dark scales slip between his fingers as gently as falling autumn leaves.  They clack as they land back in the bag.  Eren is unpleasantly reminded of the hollow ticking of an old clock.  

Armin lifts his head.  His eyes blaze with a cold fury now that he hasn't a shadow of a doubt.  

“These are Night Fury scales,” he declares icily.  “You’re selling Night Fury scales.”

All attention turns abruptly – rudely – to Krista.  Her mouth opens as if she might say something, eyes blinking in benign confusion – and then her guard slams back into place.  Her expression carefully schooled, voice cautiously neutral, she regards Armin coolly.  

“Are they Night Fury scales?”  One of her eyebrows arches.  “I didn’t know.”

“Yes,” Eren breathes.  His initial shock fades quickly and sharply to anger.  “Yes, you did.”

“I don’t see why it matters,” she says, poorly feigning nonchalance.  Her tiny fingers fasten around one of the knives in her belt.  

Armin clutches the pouch jealously to his chest, glaring venomously at Krista.  “You’re going to tell me who you got these from right now.”

“There’s only one Night Fury in all the Seven Seas,” Eren adds, flexing his hand around the hilt of his sword.  

“You don’t know that,” Krista says tartly.  

“We know which Night Fury these belong to,” Armin says coldly.  “Krista, please… tell me now, before things get violent.”

Krista’s hand goes automatically to the knives across her chest, fingers closing around the largest one. 

“And they will get violent,” Armin vows, narrowing his eyes at her.  “I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but you know Vikings by now.  We will get an answer out of you one way or another.”

Krista presses her lips together and fixes him with a defiant stare.  “I don’t know anything.”

“Where did you get those scales?!” Eren snarls, yanking out his sword.  

“I can’t tell you,” Krista says through gritted teeth.  

“Yes, you can, Kitten,” Ymir laughs humorlessly.  Her voice is low with a dark, dangerous tenor.    

Ymir uncoils felinely from her leisure.  One hand laxly reaches to the proud leather hilt of the battleaxe.  It hisses as it slides from its fastens, like a serpent eager for the prospect of spilled blood.  Ymir swings it over her shoulder, her arms heaving with the effort, and catches it near the blade with her other callused hand.  Her eyes smolder like embers.  

“Y’know, I really do hate liars,” Ymir sighs, squaring her shoulders.  “Ya were lookin’ so good, too…  How about you tell me everythin’ right now so I don’t have tah split your pretty lil’ face open, girlie?”

* * *

 

The guy in the beds next to them is chatty.  

Moblit, he called himself once in a whirlwind of words.  Berner, the stern freckled woman addressed him as.  Mobbles, the strange person with glasses said.  

Perhaps it’s just the man’s nerves talking – cooped up in a moldy, dripping little room with poor company day in and day out can feel confining.  And the man must’ve realized by now how poor his only company is; the Chief, Marco Bodt’s mother, and their scary guard dog of a man have interrogated them both several times.  And with adrenaline pounding through the veins but the body unable to move, what can one do but talk?

Whatever the reason, it’s annoying as fuck.  

Reiner shoots Bertl another annoyed glance as the man pauses for breath.  Bertl is too nervous to be truly irritated, but he does seem the slightest bit exasperated.  His big, dark eyes watch the man with concerned disbelief as he launches into another tirade.  

“For the love of Thor,” Reiner groans.  “Shut the fuck up.”

Moblit has the audacity to look offended.  “What – don’t use that language!”

Bertl moans softly, burying his head in his hands.  Reiner scowls.  

“You quit yapping about nothing and I’ll think about it,” he grunts.  

“Yapping?!” Moblit exclaims.  “I – I was explaining how we bury our dead here on Berk, that’s _serious business_ , it’s not _yapping_ –”

A loud roar in the distance cuts him off suddenly.  It’s low and guttural, loud without the high-pitched screechiness of most dragons.  The sound barely reaches them through the wooden walls of the infirmary.  He and Bertl exchange a nervous glance.  

“What dragon makes a noise like that, Moblit?” Reiner asks coolly.  

“Well, I –”  He blinks thoughtfully a few times.  The roar rings out again, closer this time.  Louder.  

He frowns.  “I’m not sure.  That doesn’t sound like – _oh_.”

His words cut off at the unmistakable belch of a dragon’s flames.  For the first time in hours, they all sit silently in their beds, listening to the cries of alarm and the dragons’ fearful trills.  Screams of _fire_ echo throughout the village like church bells.  

“Reiner?” Bertl whispers.  “Is that…?”

This time, the roar thunders through the walls of the infirmary.  Reiner claps his hands to his ears, growling with pain.  The rickety wooden boards shiver with fear, and the ground trembles.  Their beds squeal at the hinges.  A chipped vase rattles across Moblit’s bedside table and smashes to the ground.  

It cuts off abruptly with a sound like talons over the gables of a nearby house.

“Boneknapper,” Reiner affirms grimly.  He peers upwards through the holes in their leaking ceiling, but there’s nothing to be seen.  Cursing, he slings his legs out of bed.  

“No, you stay, I’ll do it,” says Bertl, shooting up and nudging Reiner back towards the mattress.  

“Do what?” Moblit squeaks, curling in on himself.  “What’re you going to do?”

Just as he speaks, they hear the fleshy sound of something hitting the ground through the thin walls.  Moblit gasps and jumps backwards.  A moment of tense silence ensues before Bertl surges back into action.  

“Open the window.”  His hands nimbly tug at the rusted latch on the shutters.  “We need to see if it’s coming.”

“What?!  But then it can see us, too!”

Reiner growls.  “I refuse to be a sitting duck.  If he’s coming, I want to meet him head on.”

Moblit says something, but his voice contends with a fierce war cry from outside.  The Boneknapper snarls just as fiercely.  Its evil _click-click-click_ of bones clatters through the street like a death march.  The sound grows closer and closer, that clicking of bones, dark and wicked, punctuated by screams of children and the sounds of their running feet.  

The roof above them sags and creaks.  Reiner’s heart stops.  Bertl freezes in place, staring wide-eyed and fearful up at the ceiling.  A single claw punches through the molding wood.  Moblit yelps loudly, rained with wood splinters from above.  It hangs like a gruesome chandelier, rotting flesh and chipped bone.  The very world seems to hold its breath for a long, tenuous moment.  

A hero bellows a challenge from just nearby.  The Boneknapper shrieks, tugging its claw free of the house.  Reiner hears it heavily collide with the ground in front of the building, hears its hateful growl and the sound of its tail hissing over the earth.  

“Get that window open, Bertl,” Reiner whispers.  Moblit whimpers pathetically, curling into a frightened ball in the corner of his bed.  

Bertl’s long fingers fumble with the latch a moment more.  At last, he punches it open, shutters flying open.  His eyes widen, and he gasps softly.  

The one-armed Chief faces the Boneknapper, his expression stone.  His bear cloak ripples in the wind as regally as any king’s velvet.  Braced in one strong hand, a slender broadsword gleams wickedly.  Its flash of silver is the only thing keeping the dragon at bay.  

Boneknapper snarls.  A shiver runs down its back, rattling its bones together threateningly.  Its long, wickedly sharp talons sink into the oozing mud with every cautious step, leaving long-fingered prints in its wake.  

The pair size one another up and circle each other slowly.  Clattering bones and snarls, careful steps and silence.  Neither seems willing to make the first move.  It is the tense calm before a storm, the moment a doe looks into the hungry eyes of a wolf before she flees, the still second before the poisoned arrow is released.  If either one strikes, there is a mutually assured potential for this fight to end in defeat.  

It is an unsteady calm.  

And then, suddenly, it’s broken.  

“Thomas, no!” a girl cries.  A boy with a weapon too heavy for his uncertain hands dashes from the safety of an alleyway towards the beast.  His young war cry trembles with fear.  

The Boneknapper whips its head around and narrows its menacing eyes.  Hissing, it spins to face its new opponent.  The _click-click-click_ of its bones sounds like laughter.  

The boy’s foolish stride falters – too weak to both run _and_ wield his weapon, he pauses before the colossal beast’s chest to heave the hammer up.  His entire body ripples with effort.  Its sloppy arch collides heavily with the dragon’s brittle chest plate.  

The dragon snarls and flings the boy easily aside.  His body flies up into the air, slamming against the ground with a final-sounding crunch.  Snorting with satisfaction, the Boneknapper seems to grin as a girl rushes to his side.  

But the Boneknapper had made a mistake.  Reiner’s heart hammers with secondhand adrenaline as the mighty Chief of Berk roars, louder and fiercer than any dragon.  His powerful blade swings in an arch towards the Boneknapper.  

A _crack_ of steel on bone snaps like a whip.  The Boneknapper’s body reels from the blow.  It bellows furiously and wheels back towards its new opponent with open jaws.  Fangs snapping on empty air, it chases after the Chief as he darts backwards.  

Unable to accept defeat, it bucks its head back.  A low roar rumbles from its chest, orange flame blossoms between its jaws.  The Chief braces, sinking further in the mud.  He barks a calm command.  

The fire erupts forward in the same moment that another roar sounds.  A fury of blue crashes down onto the back of the Boneknapper.  Its claws slot between the bones of its armor.  The yellow of its wings flash as they flail through the air in the throes of the fight.  

The Boneknapper roars and tries to fly upwards.  Its bony wings heave with effort, neck craning upwards.  But the new dragon is larger – far larger – than the Boneknapper, and it can’t lift off.  The other dragon’s head snakes around and its teeth sink into the flesh of its unprotected throat.  

Wailing, the Boneknapper yanks its throat away from the jaws of the dragon.  Blood pours red and hot down its bones and onto the muddy turf.  With a final heave of effort, the Boneknapper grievously spills the other dragon from its back.  

The dragon snarls and swings its legs up defensively over its pale underbelly.  Its snarl warns off retaliation, yellow eyes murderous.  The Boneknapper ignores it entirely.  

Croaking pitifully, the Boneknapper shakes its head.  Its blood splatters against the side of a building.  One claw moves cautiously forward, as if to take a step, but it falters.  Tripping over its own clumsy feet, the poor bastard nearly stumbles into a nearby house.  The residents cry out from within.  

A final, weakened roar echoes from the maw of the Boneknapper.  The other dragon, now wrapped protectively around the Chief, snarls.  

The Boneknapper’s feet lift from the ground with unsteady beats of its wings.  The clacking of bones grows further and further.  Bertl leans his head out the window and cranes his neck upwards, blocking Reiner’s view.  

“It’s flying away,” Bertl reports.  “And it really looks like it’s in bad shape.”

“Are they just going to let it go?!” Reiner exclaims.  “What about that other monster, why isn’t it going after him?”

“The Titanwing Monstrous Nightmare?”  He shakes his head.  “It’s cuddling the Chief now.  They’re shooting some arrows up at it, but they’re all half-hearted.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, the Chief’s proud voice booms through the walls of their little hut.  “Cease fire!  Waste no more arrows, waste no more energy!  The Boneknapper is as good as dead!”

“I don’t know about that,” Reiner mutters darkly.  

Bertl shuffles out of Reiner’s view of the window, shaking his head.  He plods wearily back to his cot, collapsing on the sagging mattress wearily.  Reiner’s gaze stays loyally on the courtyard outside.  

The Vikings clump and gather, showering the Chief in praises and wailing around the body of the foolish boy.  They lift his limp body upon their shoulders, his head rolling lifelessly back.  Some cry out to the Gods to save him, but others curse his stupidity, among them the freckled woman. 

So great is the bustle that the spoils of war are all but forgotten.  It sits like a dulled moonstone in the mud, white surface gleaming softly.  A bone, whether displaced by the foolish boy’s blow, the Chief’s fine sword, or the Titanwing’s bloody claws, was left behind by the Boneknapper.  It is a key to control, but also something the dragon will return for.  Even if on his deathbed.  

The softly shining bone lies forgotten until the small man eyes like steel strides past it on his way to the Chief.  As he walks, he lifts his feet high and watches the ground, as if the very thought of mud on his boots is appalling.  His lips curl in a sneer first at the mud the bone is buried in, then further at the sight of the bone itself.  

Does he recognize its significance?  

Lips lifted in a silent snarl, the small man stomps his heel down on the bone.  It smashes into a million pieces beneath his boot, and mud splatters up upon him.  Thick, brown filth splashes over his armor and up his arm.  With a growl of annoyance, the man marches off, flicking dirt from his fingers as he goes.  He doesn’t give the bone a second glance.  

Reiner saw it, though.  Reiner watched the man destroy the one talisman the Boneknapper sought, the item the creature would bargain its life for.  And at first, he thinks himself to be the sole witness.  But there are more pairs of eyes watching from the shadows of Berk, there always is another onlooker in towns like these – nothing goes unnoticed in a small village. 

Another woman strides carefully up to the pile of shattered bone.  With the tip of her boot, she nudges at the pieces, a look of curiosity upon her face. 

Sizing the woman up, Reiner recognizes her as the girl who tried in vain to stop the stupid boy.  Braided pigtails and furry armor, a small weapon at her hip.  In her eyes – intelligence mingled with loathing.  The girl who does not tend her wounded friend’s side, but instead searches the remains of the one who wounded?  He knows from experience _that’s_ a girl to respect. 

Perhaps noticing the attention he gives her, her gaze flickers up for just a moment to meet his.  Her thoughtful expression hardens almost immediately.  Disdainfully, she turns away, nose in the air.  

Reiner doesn’t care about that.  What he _does_ care about is the intelligence in the girl’s eyes – did she know?  Could she have guessed the significance of the pearly white bone, now laying in splinters on the ground? 

He is unsure.  He is certain, however, that this is certainly not the last they’ve seen of the Boneknapper.

* * *

 

“I refuse to say anything more,” Krista says coolly, holding Ymir’s glare.  

Eren is surprised by the resolve he sees in her eyes.  An anger burns cold as ice in there, unfaltering in the face of even the fearsome Ymir the Ravager.  Defiance rolls off of her in waves – she stands like a stone wall, braced and unafraid of any attack.  

“You will tell us, dammit!” Eren snaps, slamming a fist down on the table.  The scales on it rattle.  He grits his teeth and snarls silently into her cold gaze.  

“It’s a matter of confidentiality,” she steels.  “I’m not going to tell a bunch of cousin-fucking barbarians like you my contacts.  I’m not going to tell you anything.”

A low chuckle thunders up from the pit of Ymir’s stomach.  “Oh, ya’re not gonna tell us rotten northerners nothin’, are ya, sweetheart?”

“I’m not your sweetheart.”  Krista lifts her chin.  “Don’t call me that.”

“Why can’t I call you sweetheart, girlie?” Ymir coos mockingly.  “Don’t like bein’ tied down by someone?  Quite the little rebel, ya are.”

“It’s a personal preference,” Krista says, not so calmly, not so coldly, not without caution, not without fear.  “Nothing more.”

“I’m sure.”  Something positively evil gleams in Ymir’s eyes – something vehemently malicious, something chilling.  She leans forward across the counter, a wolfish grin spread wide over her face, one that makes even Eren unsettled.  

“Do ya know about the Brotherhood o’ the Titans, sweetheart?” Ymir whispers.  “Little band o’ bastards us cousin-fuckin’ barbarians are infamous for.  They’re the best damn pirates, best damn thieves, best damn assassins, and best damn bounty hunters in all the north.  Don’t tell me ya haven’t heard o’ them, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” Krista hisses, gritting her teeth.  

Ymir’s eyes narrow.  “I’m only tryin’ tah point out, m’lady Reiss, that ya need tah watch yar step.”

Krista stills.  Frozen with terror, she stares open-mouthedly at Ymir.  Eren’s brow furrows with a confusion mirrored on Armin’s face, but he doesn’t dare interrupt Ymir.

“I know all about ya, sweetheart,” Ymir rasps in a false whisper, grinning nastily.  “Know yar face, know the pretty bounty on yar head, know which o’ the Titans here are lookin’ for ya.  Wonder what they’d do tah a pretty girlie like you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Krista whispers, terrified now.  “They’d kill you, too.”

Ymir’s expression blackens, just for a second – really, truly blackens, contorting into something hateful and wicked – but it’s gone by the next lazy blink of her eyes.  “Ya see, sweetheart, I know exactly what they’d do tah ya.  They did it tah me when I was just a lil’ thing.  And they’ve left their mark on me –”

She leans her battleaxe against the stall and unsnaps a portion of her armor, right across her bicep.  Eren’s seen the nasty marks twisting across her bicep, like a crude tattoo over scars or ink poured into open wounds.  A gnarled knot of dark flesh marking her as the Brotherhood’s.  

Krista’s lips part for a soft, sympathetic noise.  A strange, candid blend of horror and pity flashes in her eyes as she stares.  

“– so no, they wouldn’t kill me.”  Ymir snaps the armor back up again.  “Problem is, I don’t really want tah do that.  Ya’re a pretty one, sweetheart.  Ya’d have it a thousand times worse than what I did.  All I really want is tah find my cousin – not reunite ya with yars.”

“Not reporting me to them is high treason,” Krista hedges suspiciously.  “How do I know you won’t anyway?”

Eren barks with laughter.  Both of their heads swing around to stare at him, and Ymir narrows her eyes scornfully.  Krista, however, seems curious.  She stares with wide, batting eyes.  He clears his throat and clarifies.  

“Only place Ymir’d find any resistance would be Aurolian itself,” he informs her.  “Local branches are scared silly of her.  They’ve been avoiding us all day for just being associated with Ymir the Ravager.”

“Hell, only reason Aurolian hasn’t sent someone to kill her yet is because they’re waiting until she’s gone grey,” Armin muses.  “Less of a threat then.”

“Still have to get past Fucknut,” Ymir says fondly.  

“It could be because of Berk, too,” Eren adds thoughtfully.  He grins sideways at Krista.  “Nowhere safer than on an island of crazy cousin-fuckin’ barbarians on dragons!”

Her brow furrows.  “Dragons?”

“Aye.”  Ymir leans both of her elbows on the stand, scowling again.  “What I’m trying tah say, girlie, is this – I don’t want trouble.  Help me find the dragon those scales came from, help me find my cousin, and I’ll be sure that none o’ those Titan chucklefucks bother ya again.”

Krista chews nervously at her lip, glancing around at her fellow vendors with renewed suspicion.  Eren watches the conflicting fears and defiance war across her features.  

“How do I know the Titans are here?” she asks finally.  

Ymir snorts.  “I mean, I could point ‘em out, but that’d be a bit blatant, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” Krista huffs.  

Ymir shrugs nonchalantly, muttering, “Whatever, girlie.”

“Look, Krista,” Armin says softly, “we’re not really trying to hurt anybody.”

“We will if we have to!” Eren blurts out, still glaring furiously.

“Right,” Armin amends fairly, “Eren will very gladly bash your face in if we have to, but we don’t really want to.  We don’t want to cause trouble and I don’t really want to see you hurt.  I know Ymir doesn’t want to give anyone to the Titans, even if she hides it behind bluster a mile thick.”

Ymir shoots an offended glare at him.  “Oi.”

“We don’t want anything more than our kin back,” Armin continues, ignoring her.  “Eren wants his brother-in-arms, Ymir wants her cousin, I want a dear friend of mine.  Please, just help us find Orochi, and we’ll help you however we can.”

Her head snaps up.  Every muscle in her body goes taut with a new, different sort of tension.  “Orochi?” she whispers in a thin voice.  Ghosts of recognition and realization dance in her wide eyes.  

“Orochi,” Ymir repeats slowly, watching Krista’s expression intelligently.  “That’s my cousin Marco’s dragon.  Ring a bell, does it, girlie?”

Krista’s mouth hangs open – she stares dumbly at Ymir.  Eren holds his breath, waiting anxiously for her next words.  He knows that whatever Krista’s hiding is the only scrap of a clue they’ve got in this whole damn trader’s den, and as menacing as Ymir is, he’s not sure if she’s really got it in her to throw another woman into the clutches of her life-long tormentors.  

Then again…

For Marco, Ymir really might do anything.  

Eren hopes Krista will tell them, if only for her own sake.

Krista’s shoulders slump defeatedly.  Sighing, she reaches up and rubs wearily at her temples, expression clenched.  A low, stressed sigh hisses from between her teeth.  

“Look, I…”  Krista’s voice is quiet.  “I really can’t tell you anything.  But… but if you’re really looking for Marco…”

The three of them lean forward apprehensively.  Ymir’s expression is tight with barely contained hope, but the soft ember of fear dances behind the cracks in her façade.  Because this really is their last chance.  And Ymir is afraid.  

Krista notices.  She glances up at Ymir, pausing, eyes sweeping along the cracks with not pity, but understanding.  

She looks away, down at the tiny Terror skull, sitting forgotten on the table.  “If you’re really looking for Marco… head due northwest from here.  Don’t stop until you see it.”

“See what?” Armin prompts.

Krista laughs tonelessly.  “I can’t tell you anything more than that you’ll know it when you do.  It’s unmistakable.  Don’t change paths, don’t let yourself be distracted, and… and you’ll find him.”

An exhausted smile pulls gratefully at the corners of Ymir’s mouth.  “Fuck, girlie, ya’ve got no idea what that means tah me.”

“I have an idea,” she says gently.  “Keep your end of the bargain, alright?”

“Don’t worry.”  Ymir’s smile hardens like ice.  “I intend to.”

* * *

 

The finished product of Jean’s armor is lovely. 

It is unlike anything concocted on the isle of Berk, unlike anything I have seen, but it is gorgeous without doubt.  The black leather breastplate comes up as a collar around my neck but only reaches just halfway down my midriff, strapping in the front with a thick buckle and room for hidden knives and tools.  Beyond that, flat, shiny diamond-mail until a thick, metal-studded belt around my hips.  .  

On the shoulder of my whole arm, the leather overlaps itself like the scales on the tip of Eydis’ nose, an elegant pauldron with an obvious model.  The other arm is thick, undecorated leather, fitted to stump of an arm and to be secured with straps.  There are no sleeves, but the black leather on the legs is strange and to be worn over normal pants – it’s only on the outside, attached by straps at the belt and around the legs.

Which is clever.  Armor can chafe a dragon’s scales, but soft cloth cannot. 

Warm, furry boots and a carved medallion that rests on my hip attached to the belt.  Soft wool beneath the mail. 

The straps beneath my stump are difficult for me to reach – they’re smaller and slender.  After a few fumbled attempts of pulling them through the buckles, Jean clucks his tongue and moves closer.  He brushes my fingers away.  

“I’ve got this,” he reassures, glancing quickly up at my face.  I hesitate, but my hand falls back complacently by my side, a silent declaration of trust I’m not quite sure he understands.  

“I can do it myself, you know,” I murmur.

“I know.”  His fingers pause for half a second, resting against my breast.  “I want to.”

He glances at me so quickly only the swift flash of gold from his lovely eyes can betray him.  A light pink colors his cheeks.  Ducking his head, he busies himself in adjusting my armor.  

There is a gentleness in his movements that takes me aback.  Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that nimble fingers work so delicately to fasten it all into place.  But that isn’t merely it – he seems tentative, careful, as if with a wrong touch I may fall to pieces like a delicate spring bloom.  So different than the callus touch of Berk.  It’s strange, but in its strangeness is intrigue.  

Jean tugs down on the leather.  Satisfied with its snug fit, he turns attention to straightening out every last detail.  Straightening the strap across my chest, shifting the pauldron, growing so close I can smell his hair to straighten its collar.  

He smells of pine.  I know not how he could, on an island with no evergreen, but it’s nice.  A kick of nostalgia hits me hard in the gut at the memories of Berk’s lush forests.  

Jean’s ministrations draws my attention back.  His hands linger across my abdomen, flattening the scales of my armor slowly.  The gentle pressure feels ever so heavenly.  I lean slightly into his touch.  

My shoulders slump with a happy sigh.  A question in his eyes, he glances up at me.  A concerned frown mars his lovely face.  

I feel my eyelids drooping dopily with my smile.  A fluttering warmth surges through my veins and throbs in my swollen heart.  It feels like I’m glowing – glowing with happiness, glowing with affection.  

Jean eyes me for a moment more before harrumphing and returning to his task.  He doesn’t even attempt to hide a cute smile of his own, though.  My chest feels bubbly and light.  

“How does it all fit?” he asks, voice barely louder than a murmur.  “I mean, you look great.”

“Thank you,” I chuckle.  

“I meant _it_ ,” he hastily amends.  “ _It_ looks good. On you.  It looks like it fits well.  Dammit, Viking.”

I pout.  “So I don’t look good then?”

“No, no, you look –”  Jean shakes his head vigorously, cuffing my shoulder.  “Dammit, Viking, you know what I meant!”

I throw my head back with laughter.  “You’re not bad yourself, Jean!”

_He’s so much more than not bad._

His blush is worth the under-approximation, though.  With an adorable squawk, he turns red as a beserker on battleday and buries his head in his hands.  I can’t help but laugh – not in ridicule, but in wonder.  

_How am I worthy to make such a beautiful man as flustered as this?_

But I notice with a pang of worry that he hasn’t yet emerged from his hands.  The tips of his ears still blaze red.  

I step closer and tap his forearm.  “Jean?  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s not that, it’s just –”  He laughs breathily, peeking out at me for a brief moment.  “Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.”  I shoot him my most disarming smile.  “You’re an attractive man, Jean Kirschtein.”

_Better than “not bad” – but it’s still the understatement of the age._

This time, he reacts less dramatically.  His cheeks still flush violently crimson, but he sighs in exasperation and rolls his eyes.  Twirling one finger, he commands me to turn around, muttering variations “stupid Viking” the whole time.  

“I’m just saying,” I say, cheerfully obliging, “you’re easily the best-looking person in these islands.  I’m surprised you don’t have a string of suitors waiting for you at the door.”

“The killer dragons drive most of them off,” he murmurs, fiddling with something at the nape of my neck.  The heels of hands rest against my shoulders.  Their warmth is quite distracting.

“Surely there must be some daring princess that catches your eye,” I insist.  “Krista was pretty.”

“And she’s gay.”  He raps his fingers reprimandingly against my neck.  “As am I.”

“Oh, me as well,” I say in a tone far too easygoing for the bubbling glee in my heart.  “Then there must be a Prince Charming who’s braved the dragons for a chance at your heart.”  

Jean’s hands apply gentle, deliberate pressure to my shoulders as he considers this.  I can see the contemplative furrow of his brow in his mind’s eye.  At last, his fingers slide down to my hips and squeeze them softly.  

“None but you, you ridiculous Viking,” he mumbles lowly.  

My heartbeat hammers so loudly in my chest that I’m certain he hears it.  It rattles about in my ribcage, slamming against my chest, as if trying to free itself from its cage of meat and bone and fly alongside Jean.  The fluttering warmth returns with the power of a tsunami.  I swoon ever so slightly where I stand.  

But instead of singing praises to Jean, of flirting or confessing, of whirling around and pinning him against the nearest surface, my mouth speaks before my mind can quite catch up with the latest world-shaking revelation.  

“You’re technically a Viking, too, y’know.”

Jean’s fingers flinch away as if I’m made of fire.  His sharp intake of breath makes the room seem to drop in temperature.  Just like that, the mood is shattered – quickly and efficiently.  

Which had not been my intent.  I look at him over my shoulder, spluttering apologies, but he shakes his head and gestures for me to turn back around.  His gaze evades mine no matter how hard I seek it.  

“You’re right,” he murmurs, fingers returning to my armor with a more clinical touch.  “…I haven’t thought of myself as one for a long time.”

I chew guiltily on my bottom lip, offering a compliment in a frail attempt to salvage his good mood.  “You’ve gotten much better at speaking, you know.”

“I’ve had more practice than I’ve had in a long time,” he says neutrally.  “You’re chatty.”

My head falls.  “Sorry,” I mutter shamefully.  

“No, no it’s – it’s not bad.  I like it.”  He sighs wearily.  “If this is me speaking better, I must’ve.  Insulted you left and right when you first came.”

I shake my head.  “You were quite polite, on the contrary.  You just had no idea how to act.”

“How I must’ve amused you,” he says dryly.  

“Only a little bit.”  I smile cautiously over my shoulder.  “I was still more frightened than amused by you, I think.  You terrified me.”

“Thought I was a crazy dragon hermit, I imagine,” Jean chuckles hesitantly, glancing uncertainly up at me.  

“Haven’t quite ruled it out,” I say cheerfully.  “I’ll be honest, I still don’t know why you’d stay out here as long as you have.  It would’ve driven me crazy.”

Jean’s expression crumbles.  His face turns away sharply, hands freezing in their work on my back.  Ghosts of an unpleasant past dance in his eyes like the flickering tongues of candles.  He squeezes them shut and clears his throat, shaking his head as if to dispel bad memories.  

“It’s… complicated,” he breathes in a haunted voice.  My heart constricts painfully in my chest – the pain in his eyes is one I want to brush away, to hold him so tightly he forgets whatever hurt him so and never thinks of it again.  

“Hey.  Jean.”  I reach around and tap two fingers against his smooth forearm.  “You don’t have to tell me anything.  You owe me nothing.”

“I do, though.”  Jean glances sharply at me, then quickly away.  “You… yes.  You deserve to know.”

And so I snap my mouth shut and sit in silence.  Jean gathers his courage back beneath him slowly – his fingers knot together nervously and his eyes flick wildly throughout the cave, looking anywhere but me.  I wait patiently, exuding a practiced aura of nurturing.  Shuffling his feet, clearing his throat, he at last begins to speak.  

“Berk was…  It was…  I never was very happy there.  Even… even as a boy… The island was too small, the people too… traditional… tethered.”  He shakes his head.  “The whole place felt… tethered.”

“It can feel like that,” I sympathize, wincing at feelings often too close to my own.  

Jean’s smile is brittle.  “Yes.  But.  I was stupid.  Thought it was because of status, penury.  I was young and hot-headed and so, so _stupid_ , I thought that if the Chief noticed me I would be good, that I would be happy and rich and could fuck whoever I damn well pleased.

“The way my mind… the way…  I saw dragons” – his head hangs shamefully – “was very different then.  There was one Monstrous Nightmare among the dragons at the Dragon Academy – strong, healthy, proud.  When it roared the island quivered.”

“The dragon of a Chieftain,” I murmur, raising my eyebrows.  

“Aye,” Jean sighs, hiding his face.  “And I was convinced it would be mine.   _Mine_ , then.   _Mine_.  I… I saw dragons very different.  I was cruel to the Nightmare.  To prove… strength.   It was not the way to deal with a Nightmare, but no one ever told me different.  

“Every day, Kitts would tell me to fuck off.  I didn’t believe.  I kept.  I kept wrestling.  And denying it food.  Refusing it flying time.  Like… _a damned dog._  And if others voiced dissent, I’d punch them bloody.  I was… I didn’t…  I didn’t.”

My heart pulls with sympathy.  “Jean…”

“My mother, she grew ill.”  His eyes grow weary beyond their age in a matter of seconds.  “I wish…  I ignored it at first.  Did not tend to her.  She coughed blood and hid the handkerchiefs it up with.  And I grew more and more frustrated with the dragon.  Rumors spread.  And then… she grew too sick.  Her eyes were so… so _sad_.”

His head hangs again.  Automatically, I turn around and grab his shoulder comfortingly.  But I know better than to say any more than that.

“The next day, she…”  Jean shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly.  “She was sent to sea and burned.  I have no family, so I grieved alone.  For a long time. Like a twat, too.  Nobody could tell me better, though, so…”

I squeeze his shoulder tightly, a lump settled in my throat.  Grief for a loved one is often a crueler weapon than that which spilled their blood.  

“And then… then the village erupted with cheers.”  Jean laughs bitterly.  “One of the dissenting voices in my treatment, they – they swooped in and saved the Nightmare.  Thought he’d stolen my glory back then.  The streets rang out with praise.  The Chief himself congratulated him and held a great feast.”

Something clicks at those words, bitterly spoken even after all this time.   _A Monstrous Nightmare.  A dissenting voice of cruelty.  Eren.  Eren and Titan._

“I was angry,” he admits.  “I had thought them… a… a _friend_.  I never imagined they’d steal my glory.  I took a ship and sailed to the Isle of Fenrir’s Armpit to find something even more impressive.  All by myself.  Because… I would prove I was better.  Stupid, stupid.”

He glances quickly up at me, as if to gauge my reaction – I smile sadly and rub my thumb along his shoulder.  Fenrir’s Armpit is home to some of the meanest dragons and deadliest cliffs in all the archipelago. 

“The Nightmare rider… followed me.  He was angry, too, that I was…  He said I was being stupid.”   _Sounds like Eren._ “That I had no one but myself to blame.  I didn’t want to listen.  We fought.  It was pretty damn bloody, too – worst brawl we’d ever had.  And then his dragon intervened.

“It flicked me away from its rider.  I suppose it remembered and wanted to protect him.  I was furious.  I tried to forcibly mount it, to fly it away and leave its rider there alone.  But it threw me down and belched its fire.  Fuckin’ idiot I was, I didn’t know what I did wrong.  I ran off to get away from it all, and the rider ran after me.   

“And then…”  Jean smiles sweetly.  “I met Eydis.  She must’ve.  Seen what was happening.  I think maybe – she thought the rider was going to – _retaliate_.  That the Nightmare meant me ill, that they’d kill me.  She swept down, glorious as a warrior of Valhalla, and snatched me up.”

I glance through the tunnel to the window of green.  Slumbering on the ledge outside lies the fine Eydis, serene, graceful, powerful.  Her silver cascade of scales gleams in the sunlight.  It isn’t hard to picture her benevolently intervening for the sake of an emotionally unstable boy.  

“The rider freaked the fuck out.”  He chuckles dryly.  “Thought I was going to be eaten.  Guess that’s what he told everyone.  That I’d been eaten, I mean.  He fled back to his dragon, urged the Nightmare to chase after me.  I screamed for their help and watched him try.  But the Nightmare didn’t budge.  Rightfully.”  He nods fairly.  “I… I can’t really blame it for that.  Did at first.  Now…”  He shakes his head ruefully.  

“You were young,” I say softly.  “And Kitts was a _terrible_ teacher.”

“Unlike you.”  A smile spreads over his face, and he, too, gazes down the tunnel to his dragon.  “Or Eydis.  She brought me here and taught me manners.  I kept trying to find my way home but – well, I” – he laughs softly and scratches at the back of his neck – “was not very good at flying.”

“It looks incredibly difficult, what you do,” I say, shaking my head.  “I don’t have the balance.”

“It’s not so hard,” he admonishes, rolling his eyes.  “But.  It took me.  Forever.  To learn how to take care of myself.  How to live.  How to… fly.  When I found Berk, years later – I stumbled on it by accident… I looked down on that… sad little town… and decided there was nothing for me there.  Not anymore.”

He lifts his head almost defiantly, bringing his golden glare level with my eyes.  “This is my home now.  I belong here.  Eydis knew that.  And so do I, now.”

“You _do_ belong here,” I say, smiling kindly.  “You’ve got a dragon’s soul, Jean.   _Dragon_.  I can think of no better place for you, _Dragon_.”

A beatific grin spreads wide over his face, eyes coming to life with a fiery twinkle and wrinkling at the corners.  I’m unable to resist a matching one from stretching across mine.  

“You know,” he adds, shyly, smile faltering for half a second, sparkling eyes turned coyly downwards, “perhaps… perhaps I was wrong about Berk.  Perhaps there was something there for me.”

My brow furrows.  “Oh?  …What?”

He shuffles shyly closer, acting abruptly bashful.  “You are from Berk.  And you are… someone I feel would’ve… made me happier there.  You would’ve been… Berk’s personal ray of sunshine.”

The corners of my eyes prickle.  Huffing emotionally, I launch myself at him and wrap my arm around his skinny torso, noticing happily how well he fits into my embrace.  Jean squeaks in surprise, going ramrod straight in my arm.  I feel him stiffly analyzing the situation, so, nuzzling into his shoulder, I squeeze him a bit tighter to coax him into relaxing.  

 _If he doesn’t respond to this soon I’m going to have to release him._  

But he melts against me, wrapping his arms around my neck.  They’re cool to the touch, his fingers like ice twisting in the hair at the back of my neck.  Releasing a shuddering breath, he rests his forehead against my chest and closes his eyes.  

“You make me happy, Marco,” Jean whispers.  “I am… happy.”

My heart swells to the size of a dragon’s egg.  I squeeze Jean tighter against me, gently, tenderly, as though he is as fragile as glass, trying to channel my compassion through this lopsided hug.   Such a strong punch of longing for my other arm to hold him with hits my gut that I gasp into his ear.  

“Marco?”  He gently pushes me away, though only further enough to see my eyes.  “What…?”

“Nothing.”  I spare a reassuring smile, but he doesn’t seem comforted.  Shifting the spotlight away from me, I say, “Thank you, Jean, for telling me.  Thank you so much.”

He blushes and smashes his face against my chest.  I rock backwards onto my heels, laughing.  The leather muffles something vaguely resembling a “Thank you for listening”.  

“Anytime, Jean.  Anytime.”  My fingers ache with the urge to them through his soft hair, or to run them along the smoother, dark hair beneath.   _But I can’t._ Unable to stay away entirely, I press my face into his tousled hair, breathing in the sweet scent of pine.  When he shifts, the tassels of hair tickle my cheeks.  

“You are… a friend to me,” he mumbles against the leather.  He presses his two curled hands against my chest and pushes away to look into my eyes.  “A good friend.  I would have liked to know you then.  I think.”

“You say that now,” I laugh.  “I was a very different kid.”

“Me, too.”  He shakes his head.  “A mess.  A complete mess.”

He brings me to another bellow of laughter.  He smiles and rolls his eyes at me, pushing playfully at my chest.  

“Hush, you laugh too loud,” he scolds.  “Noisy bastard.”

I shrug flippantly.  “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” he mutters, stepping backwards.  “How does the armor fit?  No pinching?  No sliding?  Warm?  Too warm?”

“It feels just fine,” I say sincerely.  “Snug, but not too tight.  I can breathe.  And the leather will stretch and give later.  My hand’s a bit cold, but not much you can do about that.”

“Wrong.”  He scampers to his desk and back in the blink of an eye.  “I made this for you.”  

He holds up a dark green glove fattened by a thick, furry fox fur stitched into the inside.  In a traditional Berk style, there are no fingers – the thumb is sheathed in a small wrap of fur until the tip, but the glove opens at the palm for free movement of all the fingers.  Warm, but useful at keeping the hands agile. 

“Oh, Jean…”  My heart sings.  “This is lovely.”

“Looks good with your eyes.”  He lifts it up to my face for a moment before dropping it back down.  “Hmmm.  Pretty.”

A compliment?  With Jean, I still cannot tell.  

He slides it onto my arm and ties the twine tightly around it, keeping the glove cozily bound.  Rambling about the necessities of keeping a backup, he wraps another extra length of twine around my bare bicep.  His fingers might linger.  Or it could be a figment of my wistful imagination.  With Jean, I cannot tell.  

“There.”  He steps back to admire his work, nodding approvingly.  “You look like a Viking hero of old.”

“Do I?”  I shake my be-gloved hand out in front of me.  “I feel it.  All I need is my favorite axe and I’ll be set.”

“Flying into battle on a Night Fury’s back, too,” Jean notes, a smile curling one corner of his lips.  “Quite the legend come to life.”

“Oh, am I allowed to fly again?” I tease, bumping my foot against his.  “Am I off quarantine now?”

“You almost fell off last time we went out,” Jean defends.  “You were sick.  Sick, sick man.  But yes.  You are fine now.  Healthy.”  

“Wait, we can fly?”  I perk upright and glance down the tunnel, past Eydis, to where Orochi pounces through daisies.  “Like, right now?”

Jean hums and glances upwards towards the fading light.  “Wait.  Wait a little longer.  We’ll fly… we’ll fly at night.”  He grins.  “I would like you to fly at night.”

* * *

 

“Don’t worry, child,” the dragon watcher rasps, lipless mouth splitting open wretchedly with a smile, “your beast will be safe and sound when you return.”

Annie nods curtly and drops a few coins into his upturned hands.  They clink gently as each one falls, and his weak fingers curl around them like a trap.  He tucks the coins greedily away in his flowing purple robes, hands disappearing inside the giant sleeves.  

“Anything more for you, esteemed patron?” he asks, dipping his head respectfully.  His sweaty bald forehead shines in the red torchlights like a greased turkey.  

“No, I –”  In the corner of her eye, she notices an approaching party – or more specifically, she notices the shine of the weapons at their sides.  Her breath hitches.  Tucking her gaze away, she listens for half a second to their laughter.  

_Trouble._

She forces herself to keep her gaze on the dragon watcher asks, “Do you know of a place I could spend the night?”

“Depends on how much you want to pay.”  He tilts his head.  “How many pennies you got left in that pouch of yours, pet?”

“Enough.”  The first couple of the party bounce excitably past, a man and a woman, both armed impressively.  Still, Annie keeps her gaze trained on the dragon watcher.  

The dragon watcher’s sparse eyebrows rise minutely.  Annie’s blood runs cold.   _He’s onto her._  

“Well, pet, I’d have to say that the Gronkle’s Boogey is the cheapest,” he says in a tone of feigned consideration.  “But it’s a rat’s nest.  No self-respecting woman would go there.  The Dancing Deathsong is much too expensive for what they offer, but they do offer the best.  I’d say the Snafflefang’s Lair is what you need.   _Excellent_ place for picking up rumors, too, if that’s what you’re here for.”

A clue?  Perhaps.  She files that information away for further speculation.  

Another pair of warriors brush past her.  One wild eyes, loud laughter – the other shy movements, delicate bracelets.  

Only two more to pass by her.  Two more she must get to ignore her.  Such a task should not be hard – not for Annie.  

“Why do you say the Snafflefang’s Lair?” Annie asks casually.  

“Pet, eyes like those don’t go anywhere without reason,” the dragon watcher says with a thin smile.  “Whatever you’re here to do, there’s the place to do it.”

Annie stares at him, suspicious now.  Her hand thumb instinctively circles the nob at the hilt of her dagger – her expression darkens into a scowl.  And Annie knows it is impressive; she has reduced men to tears in front of her with the same cold glare, forced them beg for mercy in front of their crewmates and lick her boot.  

But it has no effect on the dragon watcher.  His revolting smile only grows wider, eyes dancing with the most dangerous sort of mirth.  Annie’s skin crawls.  

Someone collides into her shoulder with the force of a battering ram.  Annie’s entire body reels from the blow.  She hisses a curse and stumbles backwards, sinking into a defensive crouch.  Her gaze fixes venomously on the ponytail at back of the affronter’s head.  

The affronter grunts and whirls slowly back to Annie and into the light of the torch.  Annie’s gaze flicks up the massive woman’s build – proud stance, custom armor, broad shoulders, dark eyes that burn hotter than any fire above a delicate smattering of freckles.  Their gazes meet.  Annie instinctively snatches at her dagger.  Every fiber in her being screams _danger_.  

This is no ordinary street thief or mercenary for hire.  No cutpurse or spy, or mugger or gangbanger.  Fighting this woman would be like fighting a force of nature.  This terrible adversary would bring Annie to heel in five seconds flat in her current state.  And as unsure of she is of how she knows any of that, Annie is certain that _this_ is exactly what it feels like to look into her own eyes.  

 _A woman of equal caliber._  

So Annie stays calm.  Her neutral expression never so much as flickers.  She summons all her strength and pours all the iciness she can into her glare.  

“Excuse you,” Annie says wintrily.  

The woman regards her with the same calm certainty of a predator at the top of the food chain, hunting in its own territory.  Her lips quirk as if she finds something amusing in Annie’s face.  Grunting, the woman turns back onto her path and strides dismissively past.  The dim moon catches the menacing gleam of her massive battleaxe.

Annie watches the woman leave, feeling more ruffled than she can ever remember.  She murmurs a distracted thanks to the dragon watcher and brushes past him.  Loud thoughts race pointless, fearful circles around her head.  

Fading into the crowd of thieves and assassins growing all the more the rowdy in the moonlight, Annie leaves the party of warriors behind.  The glowing torches of the dragon deck disappear behind the faces of common thugs and petty pickpockets.  However, even as she leaves the group behind, she can’t shake the feeling that she hasn’t seen the last of the freckled warrior.

* * *

 

Jean’s beauty is that of a bird’s, or an ocean wave’s, perhaps the beauty of the wind.  Every step, every breath, every flash of his amber eyes puts the northern lights painting the sky to shame.  His is the wild beauty that poets strive to capture within the limits of language, but their words are always too final and absolute to fully describe this wild beauty.  And it is good that this moment, that he will never be set to confining words, words to describe him and the freeness with which he moves.  

To bear witness to such loveliness, to have treasured memory proving that such beauty exists in the world is all I ask.  Watching him move, watching him fly, I vow vehemently to the skies above never to confine him, never to set this moment in vile ink.  

My chest surges with admiration, with longing, as he dances across the backs of dragons.  He is so _beautiful_ , beautiful unlike anything I have never known.  A wonderful idol never meant to be touched, to be disturbed, and yet that is all I want to do – to reach a hand out, to hold, to perhaps share in its light.  

He throws his head back with a chiming laugh.  It ripples through my bones, ebbing like the tide into my thoughts.  He catches my eye and smiles, dramatically haloed by the radiant moonlight and violet aurora borealis, and I send pious prayers of thanks to the gods for the way the light gleams off his hair.  

The dance of his feet carries him over dragons’ wings to my side.  He appears as abruptly as a ghost, but my heart clenches in my chest with anything but fear.  He smiles, and I feel weightless.  

“I didn’t come out here to be by myself,” Jean says, pouting.  He slips a hand over mine.  “Marco.  Come on.”

A frail smile spreads over my face.  “Okay.  I’m coming.”

He grins and somersaults away without another word, disappearing into the velvet blackness of the night.  To look for him now that he’s lost the moon’s ivory favor would be foolish.  I clap my hand gently upon Orochi’s warm neck.  The green of his eyes reflects the stars.  Purring, he seems to smile his permission.  With a parting kiss pressed to warm scales, I rise in a clumsy imitation of Jean and follow blindly into the night.  

There is added terror in the blackness.  With a silver moon and a purple-slashed sky as the only light, the faint gleam of the ocean waters below becomes all the more menacing.  But dozens more dragons in the sky combat the terror.  Shall I fall, there’s a greater chance of being caught before the cold dark sea.  

The dragons’ wings bend beneath me as I land heavily on them.  There is no grace in my movements, no loveliness.  It’s but an insult to Jean and his wonder.  But the rush of the adrenaline, the feel of the wind, the power of leaping through air…  Like a giddy fool, I rise up and leap again.  

Somewhere, Jean leaps too.  The stark contrast of the pale moon and stars and the shimmering aurora borealis above makes everything look like shadows and silhouettes.  Dangerous and beautiful.  Safe on a dragon’s back, I lift my head and search the skies for the man who conquers skies like chiefs conquer seas.  

With a peal of laughter, he appears on the dragon beside me.  It’s something to behold, his laughter.  A laugh bubbles up from inside of me too – staggering to my feet, I leap towards him.  The moment my feet hit his dragon’s back, he jumps off coyly into the darkness.  

I throw myself off the dragon’s back after the flap of his red cloak.  The exhilaration of weightlessness floods my brain with a thousand different emotions – before, each jump could be calculated and judged.  Now, I can only leap into this enveloping blackness with faith.  

And it’s _wonderful_.  

Adrenaline buzzes in my ears, pulses thick and hot through my veins.  Every cell of my body feels alive.  My heart sings wildly in my chest.  The cold air keeps me awake.  It prickles against my cheeks, cools the sweat at the back of my neck.  

And as my feet hits the dragon’s wing, and as I tumble forward, an exhilarated laugh bursts out of me.  Even to my own ears, it sounds a bit mad.  Grinning, I realize that I couldn’t care less.  Jean replies with laughter of his own, and it, too, sounds a little crazy.  I surge to my feet and throw myself back into the blackness towards it.  

This time, I catch up to him.  Just as he’s about to leap across the dragon’s wing, I trap his wrist with a hand, yanking him backwards.  His bony shoulder collides with my chest with enough force to bruise.  Surprised, he looks down at my hand around his warm wrist, then up into my eyes.  

A smile splits across his face.  His eyes wrinkle at the corners, the moon’s silver face reflected in their sheen.  My chest flutters pathetically.  

“Caught you,” I murmur, my voice far deeper than I intended.  

Before he can respond, the dragon beneath us lurches upwards with a roar.  I lose my footing and pitch forward, yelping.  My back hits the dragon’s scales.  Jean, dragged along after me, slams against my stomach, burying an elbow in the soft flesh there.  I gasp in pain.  He scrambles to his feet, yanking his wrist away.  

“Stupid Viking,” he grumbles, scrambling away from me.  To my ears, he sounds slightly flustered.  I groan, propping myself up on my elbow with a mournful glance towards my abdomen.  

“You hit me in my tummy,” I pout.  

He harrumphs.  “You dragged me down on top of you.”

“It hurt!”

“It was your fault!”

I fall onto my back with a dramatic sigh.  “So incredibly mean of you.”

“Shut up, Viking,” he laughs affectionately, nudging my side gently.  

“You wound me.”  I pout up at him sadly.  “At least rub my tummy better?”

He makes a face, highlighted silver by the moonlight.  “You’re completely ridiculous, I’m not –”

The dragon roars and beats its wings powerfully again, lurching the both of us.  With a shriek, Jean goes flying off its tail end.  I laugh so hard my wounded gut hurts even more.  

He appears beside me, dangling from the talons of a Thornridge, scowling.  “You’re an asshole, Marco Bodt.”

“I didn’t do anything!” I point out gleefully.  

“Shut up, that is such total bullshit –”  

“It is not, you saw me the entire time, I had no part in –”

“You know what?”  He slings his body across the space between our two dragons with a fierce war cry.  

_Shit._

Grinning, I scramble to my feet and hastily leap off into the unknown.  I land awkwardly on the familiar back of Orochi – he rumbles a curious greeting.  I smack a kiss onto his forehead but don’t stay for anything more before jumping off elsewhere.  

Somewhere in the darkness, Jean laughs happily.  My heart soars.  I never catch sight of him, but I hear him chasing after me, never more than two steps behind.  

I make a sharp right on the back of a Snifflehunch and leap onto another’s back.  He giggles again.  A wide smile spreads over my face.  Skipping across the dragon’s back, I leap towards Eydis, the silent giant.  

At the last moment, I collide with something midair.  

A shocked shout tears from my lips.  I hit the back of Eydis’s neck heavily.  Another body sprawls heavily across my own, our legs tangled helplessly together.  I’m hyperaware of the warmth seeping into my body from the heat between us.  

Jean laughs triumphantly, sitting up with a cocky sneer.  I return his shit-eating grin quaveringly – he may not care that he is seated happily right on the juncture of my legs and torso, the swells of his ass pressed firm against me, but I’m all too aware of it.  I gulp nervously and pray to the Gods for the third time this night.  

“Hey –” I protest, sitting up.  He grabs my fists and pins it above my head, shoving me roughly back down.  

“I got you,” he purrs, panting like an animal.  

“Yes,” I breathe.  “Yes, you did.”  

“Silly Viking.”  He plants a hand next to my ear – my breathing catches in my throat.  “Can’t run from me.”

His eyes gleam darkly, no more than thin crescents of gold.  The aurora borealis softens the sharp panes of his face.  Pinned helplessly beneath him like a dragon’s prey, I open my mouth, but no words come.  

Realization flashes in his eyes – stricken, Jean yelps and jumps up as if I’m hot as dragonspit.  He rolls off me sideways into the darkness and disappears, swallowed by the night.  

“Jean!”  An astonished peal of laughter tears from me.  I scramble to my feet, staring anxiously after him.  

He wails melodramatically somewhere in the black night.  I turn to face the sound of it and catch a glimpse of his leaping shadow crossing the bright band of the aurora.  It’s all too easy to picture his face as red as a tomato.  Laughing, I stagger to my feet and launch off the dragon’s back.  

“Jean!” I shout midair.   I’m too distracted to nail the landing, and so I land in a heap on the dragon’s back.  

“Jean!” I call again, pulling myself upright.  “Where’d you go?  Come back!”

“You’re shit at this, Marco,” he laughs.  The sound of it echoes around through the dark night.  I scowl halfheartedly, whipping this way and that to look for him.  

“Jean!” I whine.  “I can’t see you, it’s too dark!  Where are you?”

“I’m not sure,” he says with a hint of his usual teasing cadence, though tense.  “Too dark to tell.”

I groan exasperatedly.  “Jean!  Come back!”  

“Or what?”  He sounds more comfortable, smugger than before.  “You can’t come find me, can you?”

“I can try!”

Jean laughs.  “You can, but you’ll fail.”

I whine his name again, turning in the saddle.  “Where are you?!  I can’t see you anywhere!”

“Why could that be, I wonder?” he muses with an evil giggle.  

“Jean!” I groan.  “I’m going to find Orochi and leave if you don’t come over here right now!”

“Can’t have that,” he hums thoughtfully.  

Suddenly, something swings up from below.  Jean lands in a whirl of his cloak on the dragon in front of me.  I open my mouth to protest – _has he been dangling beneath the dragon this entire time?_ – but he cuts me off abruptly with shoving a hand awkwardly overtop of mine.  

His head untucks from against his chest.  The wind snaps his cloak and tousles his hair.  Gently, he swipes a thumb across the back of my hand, testing the waters.  My heart swells; he’s absolutely adorable.  

“Jean,” I chuckle, lacing our fingers together.  My voice sounds tender even to my own ears.  He smiles shyly, glancing away from me.  

“Marco, I –”  His voice falters, and he sighs exasperatedly, breathe turning into a cloud in front of him.  “Stop smiling.  You look stupid.”

“You love it.”  I grin widely.  “Have I ever told you that purple is a good color for golden eyes, Dragon?”

He glances at the northern lights and tucks his head against his chest, flustered.  “You’re _stupid_.   _Stupid_ fucking Viking.”

“And _you’re_ blushing,” I chuckle.  

“I am not,” he scoffs.  He glances up with a hesitant excitement.  “Marco – I – I want to show you something.”

I lean closer towards him, his body a touch of warmth in the cold black.  “Oh?” I breathe.  

“Do you – do you want to see?”  The sparkle of his eyes, setting the glorious stars and heavenly moon to shame with their lovely glow, grows ever brighter.  “I would – I would like to show you.”

He sounds breathless, excited.  His nervousness cannot quite quench that spark of exhilaration.  My gut pangs.  Squeezing his hand, I smile so wide my cheeks hurt.  

“Anything, Jean.  Anything for you.”

He looks stunned.  His brows raise, mouth falls open, eyes light up as a blush paints his cheeks the color of roseblossoms and the tips of his ears crimson.  I delight at a squeaked sound of giddy disbelief.  

His other hand comes up and claps around mine.  His fingers, his soft, smooth hands clasp so tightly around my rough skin that he drags it against him.  The backs of my fingers press against the cool leather of his armor.  He has me trapped.  And I couldn’t be happier about it.  

Trapped as I am, he catches me completely off-guard with a feather-light brush of his lips against mine.  

A shock travels through my body.  His mouth is soft, the kiss childishly chaste.  Humming, I move closer.  He pulls away almost immediately, leaving me blinking in dazed surprise.  

“Follow me,” he whispers, relinquishing my hand.  Jean vanishes in a whirl of his red cape.  For a few moments, I blink dumbly at the empty space he once occupied.  The warm memory of him on my lips cools quickly in the night air. 

There is a moment of disbelief.  Then of giddy flutters, of being so unbearably happy I can only bury my head in my hands and squeak like a maiden.  Lastly, of desire.  Lifting my head, I search for him in the selfish hope of another kiss, one perhaps not to innocent. 

His shadow crosses the moon.  I grin and bolt after him.  My feet jumble clumsily beneath me – they tangle up in each other with my excitement, and I nearly roll of the side of the dragon.  At the last moment, I save myself with a clumsily executed leap towards Eydis.  I slam against the side of her neck.  

She rumbles an exasperated greeting.  Desperately, I claw at her back, but there are no spines to grab and pull myself up.  My fingers slide off her slick scales.  The wind roars around me for only a precious few seconds before I slam heavily onto the back of another dragon. 

Gasping for breath, I scramble upright.  The dragon’s scales feel familiar beneath my fingers, my legs slipping instinctively over its neck.  They turn to look back at me.  One of Orochi’s green eyes glow in the blackness. 

He snorts incredulously.  _You’re embarrassing me._

I only grin in response, irrevocably happy. 

Huffing, he spreads his inky wings wide and carries us higher into the sky.  The moon glows silkily off his scales.  The purple lights shed their radiance down upon him, and every muscle of his body is glossed with their royal gleam.  I haven’t a doubt he must be gorgeous to watch, graceful and elegant, pirouetting like a nightingale.

The moonlight catches on Eydis’ lightly patterned wings and on the tips of Jean’s hair.  I wonder if I might be gorgeous, too, by extension of Orochi’s effortless power. 

With a parting embrace, I slip from Orochi’s back.  My feet hit the fragile skin of Eydis’ wing steadily.  I feel immeasurably gracefully skipping across it.  Jean’s bright eyes watch me settle onto Eydis’ back behind him. 

He leans into me, the small of his back fitting between my crossed legs.  The back of his head hits my shoulder, and I feel the warmth of him through the armor so carefully shaped by his capable hands.  By the light of the moon and the bright sky, his half-lidded eyes glint like the finest coins of a dragon’s hoard. 

“Orochi is beautiful,” Jean murmurs. 

“He is, isn’t he?”  I lick my lips nervously.  “He knows it, too.  Right bastard, he is.”

“Hmmmm.”  Jean’s lips quirk.  He pulls away, and for half a second, I think I’ve done something wrong – my heart thuds painfully in my chest, mouth falling open with apologies.  But he rises to his feet and offers a hand to help me up. 

A candid, pure smile spreads wide across his face just as a beam of moonlight shafts down upon him and illuminates all the lovely planes of his face.  His beauty blindsides me.  If gods do not look as lovely as him now, bathed in light from the painted sky and framed by the graceful moon, than I should never want to go to Valhalla.  Heaven I find in him. 

“Marco, c’mon,” he whines, shaking his hand out. 

 _Oh, fuck, I’m staring._   I glance away and let him lift me.  He takes me patiently, even as my feet falter with their given weight.  The broad scales of Eydis’ back are slicker than they seem, but Jean’s arms are forgiving. 

Eydis dips a little with the air currents.  I gasp and throw my arm out, smacking Jean in the process.  The poor beast bucks her body to try and keep me level again, but it only frightens me more.  I am all too aware of the oceanic abyss below and how easy it is to be lost in the deep, dark waters. 

I hear an undignified yelp – _was that me?_ – and the world spins.  The wrongness of it sends my mind reeling. 

“Marco.”  Jean’s hands rest on my hips, grounding me.  “Calm down.”

I latch onto one of his hands and crush it with my grip.  “ _Jean.  I do not have any balance._ ”

“Bullshit.”  He gives me a small squeeze.  “You fly over the backs of dragons.  Like.  Good.  You are good.  This is… merely… _standing still_.”

I release a panicky, high-pitched laugh.  “‘Birds don’t fight the wind’.  _You said that._ You _literally_ said that, last time we flew.”

“You’re not a bird, Marco,” he chides, resting his chin on my shoulder.  “You’re a Viking, no?”  In the corner of my eye, I glimpse the familiar gleam of his eyes.  “Conquerer of the Andorian Sea, vicious Sea Wolf, Tamer of the Mighty Night Fury…”

He wraps his arms a little further around me, his voice a vibration against my neck more than sound.  “ _You can do this, Marco._ ”

A shiver goes down my back.  His words ignited the tiniest of sparks in my gut.  A cold shame trickles through my thoughts – a Viking, frightened of falling?  Of the ocean?  My blood sings with anger.  When has that ever stopped my ancestors?  When has that ever stopped _me?_  

 _Since you lost your arm,_ a hesitant voice whispers in the back of my mind. 

My shoulders fall lax with a released breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding.  I clutch Jean’s hand tighter for a tense moment, his cold fingers slotting easily between mine as if we were made for one another.  Then, steeling my nerves, I take a cautious step forward. 

Much to my surprise, I don’t fly immediately off of Eydis’ neck.  Her scales ruffle slightly beneath my foot, which is an odd, unsettling feeling.  Jean hums approvingly, his hands still offering support should I lose my balance. 

Holding my arm carefully out, I maneuver along the strange, flat scales of Eydis’ neck.  My throat tightens when I accidentally glance past her, down below – the ocean glitters like a raven’s beady eye, dashed with wicked purple.  The waves hold nothing but darkness for me; dark waters, dark monsters, and dark memories.  Jean must notice my wandering thoughts, for his grip tightens slightly, and his head appears on my shoulder again. 

“Marco.”  Eyes inquiring, voice uncharacteristically gentle.  “You’re okay.”

I swallow around the dryness of my throat and nod, tearing my gaze away from the danger below.  “Right.”

Before I know it, I shuffle behind Eydis’ magnificent crest.  Her muscles ripple beneath my feet with every beat of her wings, every corresponding bob of her head.  The constantly moving terrain takes me a moment to adjust to. 

“If you feel yourself… losing,” Jean murmurs, leaning around me, “grab.” 

His right hand clutches one of the bones of her crest.  Then he pulls back, the other hand slipping from my waist as if to disappear entirely.  I whip around so quickly I nearly throw myself off the edge, snatching his wrist before it can disappear. 

“Don’t go,” I implore, bring his hand against my chest.  He blinks once, twice, then smiles. 

“Needy.”  His hands go back to my waist, hesitantly.  “You will not fall.”

“Not with you here, I won’t,” I murmur. 

“Hush,” he scolds.  “Enjoy.”

Chuckling, I turn back around to face the sky laid out before Eydis. 

There is a unique power to being perched atop as noble a dragon as a mighty Stormcutter.  The wind isn’t feral or joyous as it tears around me, it doesn’t thrum through every fiber of my being, chanting a mantra of _faster, faster, faster!_  

But there is… something. 

Here, standing on Eydis’ proud back, I feel unlimited.  The glory of her fours wings sweep the sky around us in wide arcs, pulling the clouds apart and cupping the winds to her bidding.  A dozen dragons assemble below, screeching, and though I know not how I am sure, I know that they rank beneath her.  Eydis is queen here – queen of the heavens.  And I am above even her. 

Orochi’s familiar croak reaches my ears.  I lift my head to see him twirling curiously beside me, his green eyes like torches in the night.  Seconds after our gazes lock, he flashes his pink tongue happily at me and gurgles a laugh.  I can’t help but laugh back. 

“He is a character,” Jean muses. 

“He is,” I agree.  “And he’s – he’s so different than this.”

Jean makes a thoughtful noise.  “Is he?”

“Yeah, he’s –”  I turn, and he is there, beside me, gaze already seeking mine, already tender.  Swept in moonlight, godly, and glowing like a star himself, Jean is so utterly beautiful it makes my heart ache in my chest.  His tousled hair flutters in a gust of wind.  My breath leaves me in a single exhale. 

“Marco?”  He tilts his head to one side, baring more of his porcelain neck.  “Are you…?”

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper in a moment of weakness.  “Gods, Jean – you’re so beautiful.” 

A crimson flush rises to his cheeks.  Clutching me tighter, he glances bashfully down and tries to respond in kind.  “Y-you – uh.  You.  Y-you stole the words from my… my mouth.  Beau…tiful.  ” 

“I’m glad we agree,” I chuckle, intertwining my fingers with his hand on my hips. 

“No, I meant –”  Jean groans and presses his forehead into my shoulder.  “I meant _you_.” 

I throw my head back in a peal of adoring laughter, my swollen heart beating tenderly in my chest.  I feel him growl against my armor, feel his grip on my hips become viselike.  With a powerful yank of his arms, he spins me around so that our chests are pressed together.  His nose brushes mine. 

I stagger a bit in surprise, but Jean’s powerful arms wrap around my body with the strength of steel, grounding me to Eydis.  They keep me trapped even when I squirm, laughing, asking him what he’s doing – one hand winds up and carefully lays across my cheek, and I cut off abruptly, falling still in his embrace. 

The pads of his fingers are cold.  His hands, though strong from years of work, are gentle as a feather, treating me as if I were delicate glass that could shatter with a wrong touch rather than gnarled, brutish muscle and thick, scarred hide. 

“I meant that you’re beautiful.”  He runs his gentle thumb along my cheekbone, leaving a trail of sparks.  “You are… you are so lovely, Marco.  I do not… I cannot put… I _cannot_ tell you… how pretty.”

“Jean…”  I force his name through frozen lips. 

“I am… so glad.”  He smiles candidly.  “ _So_ glad to know you.”

And I cannot resist it any longer.  My arm surges forward and seizes his jaw, our bodies crash together, and I smash our mouths together. 

His lips taste salty from the sea air. 

The first kiss is awkward and rough, the undoing of years without practice for Jean and the unleashed frustrations I’ve bottled up for too long.  His lips slide over mine clumsily.  His hands skate nervously up and down my back. 

I chuckle, smiling against his mouth, and, cupping his cheek, I resolve to kiss the boy until he’s brainless. 

It seems to work.  Melting against me, Jean slides his arm up shoulders and around my neck.  He leans his weight into my chest and kisses me back, for _real_ this time.  And as the slide of our mouths together become more natural, as he learns tentatively how to fit back together with someone, the kisses get a hell of a lot better. 

I groan when he slips his tongue into my mouth.  _Damn.  Boy must’ve been a great kisser back in the day._

Time slips away like the slow drizzle of honey, slow and heavy and sweet.  My world consists of warming hands that wander across my body, cold, stinging winds through my hair as he rakes his fingers through it, and the small sounds he makes when I kiss him deeply. 

He nips bravely at my lower lip, inciting a small groan from me.  I tug his hair, and he moans shamelessly. 

I pull back, staring at him with hooded eyes.  “Hair pulling, Dragon?”

“Shut up,” Jean murmurs, leaning forward to capture my lips again.  With a giddy grin, I oblige him. 

When we break apart again, he cups my face between his hands and rests our foreheads together.  I grin and tug the hair at the back of his head again teasingly. 

“You’re a nerd,” he whispers with an overjoyed grin. 

“Yours truly.”  I kiss the corner of his lips.  “You’re a great kisser.”

Jean collapses against me with a pleased hum, his pupils blowing wide.  “Yours truly,” he purrs, and _goddamn_ if it’s not the sexiest thing. 

He kisses me like poetry.  Ferociously, roughly, but at the same time – so gentle.  His hands travel up and down my armor, sliding over the leather and curling through my hair.  Whilst he distracts me with a lavishly deep kiss, one hand undoes the plate protecting my stump.  I gasp into his mouth at the feel of his warm fingers against the tender skin there, and he chuckles. 

Slowly, our kisses become languid – deep and hot, but unhurried.  I smile more and more against his lips, and I nuzzle our noses together whenever we come up for air.  My heart feels ready to burst from the affection throbbing painfully in it. 

He pulls away after a particularly long, deep kiss with a disapproving hum.  Fixing me with a reproachful glare, he accuses, “I can feel you falling asleep, Marco.”

I grin helplessly, too happy to give a damn.  “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”  Jean smacks my cheek playfully.  “Stay awake, silly Viking.  You sleep better than anyone, wake up.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” I chuckle, pressing our foreheads together.  “Sleep is healthy, after all.”

He harrumphs skeptically.  “Not when I’m trying to kiss you it’s not.  You sleep like the dead.  You sleep when you want to sleep and you do not get up until you want to get up.”

“Guilty,” I admit with a guiltless grin.  “Am I falling asleep now?  Can you tell?”

“Yes.  _Stay awake._ I’m trying – to shower you with affection, dammit.  Fuckin’ Viking…”

“Jean, we have tomorrow as well.”  I run my thumb along his lip.  “Tomorrow and the next day and the next.  All for kissing, and showering each other in affection.  But I think if we go any further tonight…”

I trail off and pointedly clear my throat.  He blinks owlishly, cheeks flushing, and makes a strange squawking noise.  After a long moment of quiet, Jean sighs as if letting me sleep is something extremely tedious. 

“I have all of tomorrow for kissing you, yes?” he checks, smiling coyly.  When I nod eagerly, he runs a thumb along my lips.  “Promise?”

“Promise,” I murmur, smiling. 

“I will hold you too that.”  He grins and pecks my forehead cheerfully.  “I cannot wait for a day of nothing but kissing you, Marco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooooow this chapter was so long, I hope you liked it though! Have I ever mentioned how much I love Ymir? She's so awesome. 
> 
> On an incredibly important note, this fic has more lovely [fanart!!](http://smutindevelopment.tumblr.com/post/142195786616/another-drawing-for-the-jeanmarco-how-to-train) It's so gorgeous go shower them in affection for how lovely it is!!
> 
> I haven't reiterated for a while but if you need to ask me any questions about the httyd universe? Shoot. I'm ready to answer them. 
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -Boneknapper  
> -[Monstrous Nightmare](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Monstrous_Nightmare)  
> -[Stormcutter](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Stormcutter)  
> 


	11. The Downed Dragon

Krista’s footsteps slam against the shaking wood.  People cry out and duck out of the way as she races through the market.  Her heart pounds like a staccato drumbeat in her ears, an uneven, suspenseful rhythm, punctuated by her footsteps, a building crescendo – but building to what?  She dare not turn and see.  

Through the seas of people, she catches a glimpse of the dragon aerie.  With the back of her hand, she shoves a man out of her way and runs the final sprint.  The rickety ramp rattles with her footsteps.  

Slamming the door open, she screeches to an abrupt halt.  It smells foully of shit and piss, like the rest of this damn port.  A dozen Terrible Terrors screech and dive for their perches, frightened by her sudden appearance.  So many pairs of bulbous yellow eyes blink curiously towards her.  

Only one doesn’t move.  It croaks softly towards her, cocking its head like a confused puppy.  Krista surges towards her messenger Terror, whipping a stubby pencil and paper out of her bag.  

“Listen, girl,” she murmurs, bracing the parchment against the hole-riddled wall of the aerie, “I need you to deliver a message to Jean.”

It squawks again, a tiny shiver traveling through its purple scales.  

“Yeah,” Krista laughs, “finally getting a use out of you, aren’t I?  I hope you still know where to find him.”  

She scrawls a short warning message across the paper in giant, spiky letters.  Her pencil pauses ever so slightly before she jots down Ymir’s name – biting her lip, she takes more care with that word than others.  A chill goes down her spine as she thinks of those burning eyes, hotter than any forge.  

“There,” she whispers, signing her name as a messy scrawl.  Turning back to the Terror, she rolls the parchment up in her hand and tucks the pencil back into her pocket.  

“It’s not too heavy for you, is it?” she wonders.  She glances at the strap of leather around the Terror’s neck and freezes.  The tiny canister sitting on its throat is already full, leafing edges of wet paper sticking out of the unclosed top.  

Krista launches herself at the Terror.  It squeals and retreats as she crashes to her knees beside it, but she catches its collar and drags it back.  The Terror wails, sinking its claws into her knees.  The rest of the dragons screech.  Wrestling the message from the canister, she yells and lets it free.  

The Terror squawks and presses its back against the wall, shivering and eyeing her nervously.  Only then does Krista notice the rumpled, broken wing held gingerly by its side.  

“Oh!”  She freezes, momentarily forgetting the tiny scroll in her hands.  “Oh, no, what happened to you?”

“I do my very best to keep all the dragons safe,” lilts a raspy voice from behind her, “but sometimes… accidents do happen.”

Krista whirls around, whipping out her dagger.   There, standing eerily in the doorway, is the dragon-watcher.  Her blood runs cold – she’d recognize the creepy vulture of a man anywhere, tarnished golden chains hidden beneath the droops of his clammy, liver-spotted skin.

“On occasion, people break in,” he croaks, flashing Krista with out of his three teeth.  “They have a tendency to ravage our beasts and leave an absolute mess of things.”

“Who did this?” Krista demands, crouching defensively in front of her Terror.  “Why?”

His sunken eyes wrinkle at the corners.  “You have the note, dearie.  I do not.”  

Without taking her eyes off of the dragon-watcher, Krista unfurls the note with one hand.  She glances briefly down at the three words scrawled messily across the paper.  

         _Nice try._

_-Ymir_

Krista glances sharply up at the dragon-watcher – he grins from ear to ear, all glistening gums and greasy bald skin.  A disgusting man, a strange man, a man who undoubtedly knows all’s secrets but never seems to tell any of them – a man she’s known for years.  

“You’re one of the Titans?” she accuses sharply.  

“Perhaps,” the man croaks, lacing his weak fingers together.  “Depends on who’s asking.  Am I speaking to Krista, my benevolent client, or Historia, the runaway princess under the protection of the Ravager?”

“Here’s something interesting: I’m both.”  Krista levels her dagger.  “How did Ymir manage this?”

“She had to be sure you wouldn’t meddle with things,” the dragon-watcher says.  “The bone will heal.”

“This doesn’t feel like being under her protection,” Krista says, eyeing him suspiciously.  

The dragon-watcher smiles lecherously.  “My dear, merely be thankful the Ravager took an interest in you when she did.  Another day and you would’ve been ours.  My advice is for you to be thankful you escaped with only a wounded dragon.”

* * *

 

Bowed before the mighty carved throne of Berk, Bertholdt feels an unwilling sense of awe. 

He had heard, of course, of the great northern tribes whose blood ran as hot and thick as dragons.  His employers had debriefed him on their vicious histories as the most ferocious warriors and dragon hunters of the seven seas; only recently had the fiercest of their primitive tribes tamed a dragon.  Throughout his time in the cold islands, he’s met many a Viking and come to respect their ideology and overall personality. 

However, nothing could’ve prepared him for being brought before the sheer majesty of a Great Hall. 

It isn’t just the tapestries of fine stolen silks or the murals of Vikings and dragons caught in bitter battles along the walls, it’s a palpable aura he feels prickling at the back of his neck and crushing his feeble pride.  As if he were being watched by something powerful, as if being brought before the thousands of noble Viking Chieftains that ruled this hall for centuries.  His shoulders hunch and he hangs his head, averting his eyes from the throne. 

“It’s interesting, no?”  From the shadows, the strange glasses-person slinks.  “Everyone has that reaction right at first.  They act all scared and submissive.  Even when the Hall is dark like this.”  They sweep a hand towards the dead coal beds.  “It’s almost like the throne has a power in of itself.”

The dim light gleams menacingly off their glasses as they seem to think, rolling back on their heels. 

“Lots of very strange things happening today, boys,” they hum, knitting their fingers behind their back.  “Do you know why I had Erwin bring you here?”

Reiner snarls, “Because you’re a sick bastard?”

“True,” they say with a smile, “but not quite.  I thought it’d give you a little bit of perspective about the Viking ways – they’re not particularly forward-thinking people, you see.  It’s a marvel you’ve escaped a killing blow from a particularly angry townsperson for this long.”

Bertholdt glances hesitantly towards the angry midget standing indifferently by the door, blocking their safe escape.  “You talk like you’re not one of them,” he says hushedly. 

“I like to think I’m not.”  They tilt their head to one side.  “ _My_ Tribe kicked me out.  Berk is definitely more accepting of such versatile fields as sexuality and gender, but it’s not a utopia.  And unless you want to become dragon chum, you ought to make yourself useful soon.” 

Reiner shoulders around Bertholdt, falling into a soldier’s stance in front of him.  “Why.  Did.  You.  Call us here?”

They tip forward onto their toes, eyes alight with a wicked glint.  “Because that Boneknapper didn’t come the other day just for kicks.  It dumped a pile of fish next to the medicine hut.  Uneaten, freshly caught, juicy fish.  I want to know why the hell a Boneknapper is feeding the two of you.”

“Fish – ?”  Bertholdt wheels around to Reiner, blood draining from his face.  “Reiner, do you remember –”

“Back on the Far Cliffs,” Reiner finishes grimly.  “The mysterious fish.  That was the Boneknapper?”

“Evidently.”  The strange person plops their ass down on the corner of a magnificent dining table.  “So it’s been feeding you for some time?  When did that start?”

“I – I’m not sure,” Bertholdt stammers, flummoxed.  Turning to Reiner, he asks, “On the iceberg, did it ever…?”

“Maybe?”  Reiner shakes his head.  “I – there seemed to be more fish than I caught – but I didn’t _think_ about it.  Didn’t think there was some _lunatic dragon_ –”

“The only reason that dragon might be lunatic is that you made it,” the person tsks.  “This behavior is _odd_ , and maybe dangerous, but not particularly lunatic.”

“What?!” Reiner says.  “That thing is crippling your own people!  It’s burning houses and destroying the whole fucking village!  To feed us?!”

“To be fair,” they say neutrally, “we attacked it first.  And it didn’t seem particularly malicious.  But of course” – they sweep a hand towards the murals – “the rest of the Tribe might not agree.”

“I wonder why!” Bertholdt says nervously. 

“Oh, please,” they scoff, pushing their glasses further up their nose.  “Have some backbone.  Now, tell me boys – how did you treat this Boneknapper when it was… _under your care_ , shall we say.”

Their tone is steeped with disapproval they don’t deign to mask.  Bertholdt’s eyes immediately fall down to his shoes, like a scolded child, but Reiner glares adamantly back.  He says nothing, but his defiance rings like a shout from the taut set of his stance. 

The person only waits.  They patiently tap the toes of their boot against the stone floor, an eerily blank smile plastered across their face.  Bertholdt’s skin crawls, just from looking into their intense eyes. 

“We found it poking around in one of our dumps,” Bertholdt says quaveringly, bowing his head from their gaze.  “It was looking… looking for a bone, in the carcasses.”

“‘A Boneknapper will stop at nothing to find the perfect bone to build its coat of armor,’” they quote, mulling over it.  “I take it you found the bone first?”

“We did.”  His stomach knots with a shame that surges suddenly and violently through him – eyes prickling with tears, he tucks his head against his chest.  He wants to say more, to confess, but he does not know how to force the words through frozen lips.

The strange person uncrosses their legs, leaning forward.  “Would it help you if I ask questions, Bertholdt?”

He nods, sparing them a watery smile. 

“Alright.”  They lean back again.  “Feel free to jump in at any moment, blondie.  Did the Boneknapper fear you?”

“Yes.”  _Bones scraping against the deck, wet eyes rolled back, slits of yellow in the shadow of the sockets, quivering, clattering armor, terrified trembles –_ “Yes, it was very afraid of us.  Me.  Me especially.”

“Why was that?” they say, tilting their head to one side. 

Bertholdt shifts his weight uncomfortably.  “We… did bad things.  It… it would see me and… snarl.  But I would lift a club and it would… it was afraid.  But I thought it _hated_ us.”

“You beat it?” they ask quietly. 

Bertholdt squeezes his eyes shut.  “Many times.”

“I see.”  Their lips press together.  “Why didn’t it fly away?”

Reiner steps in mercifully.  “It couldn’t.  None of them could.”

“You chained it up?” they ask, a touch of pity in their eyes. 

“Only when it wouldn’t cooperate,” Reiner says, grinding his teeth.  “If it didn’t snap at anybody, it could sit on the deck without its shackles.”

“So a merit-based liberty.  How long did that continue?”

“Years,” Bertholdt sighs.

A sharp look of disapproval flashes in their eyes, but they disguise it with a nod of the head.  “And tell me, did you ever harry its sleep?” 

With a heavy lump in his throat, Bertholdt can only nod shakily. 

“But you did let it sleep, yes?” they reassure.  “You let it eat, you let it rest.  You allowed those merit-based freedoms.”

Bertholdt and Reiner exchange a glance, and Bertholdt is surprised to see a jaded shame in his stalwart companion’s blue eyes.  He shakes his head slowly, as if acknowledging a noble defeat at the end of a battle

“We did, yes,” he confirms in a quiet, level voice, too calm to be his own.  The grief souring his mood and prickling tears at the corners of his eyes cease – he swallows down the lump in his throat and squares his shoulders.  Reiner’s head lifts, glancing at Bertholdt in surprise. 

The person, however, is positively tickled.  They clap their hands excitedly together, cackle, and rub them furiously against one another. 

“Well, that clears it right up!  Especially if this happened for any long period of time.  That’s so fascinating, though!  The reversal of roles in the Boneknapper’s mind!”

“What are you talking about?” Bertholdt asks sharply, regarding them suspiciously. 

They blink owlishly, mouth hanging open.  “…It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“No,” Bertholdt says, fixing them with his best glare, “it’s not.”

Their eyebrows shoot up to their hairline.  “Peace, sweatie.  Ha.  Thought you had no backbone.  That’s good, it’s good, you wouldn’t survive here without one.”

“Tell us about the Boneknapper,” Reiner says, stepping forward, reinvigorated by Bertholdt’s resistence.  With a cruel gleam in his eyes, he crosses arms over his chest. 

The strange one launches into a long-winded ramble about the complex alterations in dragon psychology after abuse that Bertholdt does not even make an attempt to understand.  Instead, he watches his companion in the corner of his eye, taking care to sweep his gaze up and down every inch of Reiner. 

The people of Berk had been kind to Reiner.  They’d fed him and nursed him back to health.  Though he carries not the unshakable muscle he had before the disaster, there is more than thin, sagging skin clinging to his bones.  That familiar strength, his lover holds with pride, reclaiming it bit by bit.  Reiner is not yet defeated.  He’s an old soldier, wearied by battle, but not defeated.  It is a comfort to see.  Bertholdt’s hackles lower ever so slightly with a sweet smile towards his companion. 

Reiner either does not notice Bertholdt’s attention or ignores it.  He narrows his eyes and nods along to everything the strange person says, going so far as to scratch his chin once when they seemingly pose a question. 

“So, basically –”  Reiner shakes his head ruefully.  “Basically, this bitch thinks that it owns us now.”

“That’s right!” they crow, beaming.  “Oh, you catch on quickly!  It thinks that since you were technically beat up by dragons, that taking care of you is now _its job_.  For some reason, its psychology is twisted to think of you as a responsibility.  In its eyes, your roles have been reversed.  Thus a _role reversal_.”

Bertholdt feels the blood leave his face.  “O-oh.  Oh, Thor.  That… doesn’t sound good.”

“No, no, don’t be worried!” they say cheerfully.  “The Boneknapper, though maybe a bit loony, doesn’t seem particularly bloodthirsty.  Wait until one of Erwin’s hunters find its body or slit its throat to leave the village and you’ll be fine.”

“Wait.  Wait, I thought we were trying to help the Boneknapper?” Reiner breaks in, brow furrowing in concern.  “Are we not?”

The strange person shrugs, a glare catching on their glasses.  “The Tribe is very single-minded.  Like I said, they don’t do well with simple things on good days.  As fascinating as it would be to capture it and study its psychology, nurse it back to health or whatnot, they’d never go of it.”

“But you just said it’s not bad?” Bertholdt says. 

“I did,” the person acknowledges with a curt, dutiful nod.  “At least – that's probably what you understood from me, eh?  No, it's not _bad_ , per se. Just dangerous.”

“So...”  Reiner scowls and cocks his head.  "So they're going to kill it anyway? Isn't this Tribe supposed to be dragon-huggers?"

“Hmmm, yes,” they hum, “but we've hit a bit of a rocky patch with basic civilities recently.  It hurt that stupid boy pretty bad – it'd take an awful lot more political than any of us have to save its skin.”

They clap their hands together excitedly.  “Oooooo, maybe I'll join the hunt!  I can collect some samples!  The only Boneknapper I ever came across _hated_ me, didn't get anything good from it.”

“ _You're_ going to hunt it?" Bertholdt gasps, appalled.  “I thought – you just said it wasn't guilty!”

He is unable to tear his gaze away from the gleaming white teeth as they cackle maniacally.  “Where the hell did you get this idea I wanted to save the thing?  There's no stopping the Vikings.  Even if Marco himself descended from Valhalla to give it an official pardon, I don’t think the Tribe would listen; it’s gone too far.  I might at least try to give it an easy death.”

Their words seal the Boneknapper's fate as much as the closing of a coffin lid; it leaves in its wake a quiet, stunned silence.  Bertholdt's innards churn.  He feels the blood drain from his face as he examines the problem – a confused and mentally damaged Boneknapper being hunted by bloodthirsty barbarians, being slaughtered and dissected for parts for reasons it doesn't even understand, and them, unable to help in any way, though of course it's because of them that the Boneknapper is in this situation in the first place.  

He looks into Reiner's eyes, seeking reassurance.  What he finds is a ghostly reflection of his own fears and guilt.  There is at least a comfort in that – a comradeship in the mutual grief settling like a heavy, suppressing stone on his heart, a shared burden carried across both of their shoulders like yokes.  Instinctively, he reaches for Reiner's hand and offers a watery smile.

“Can we do anything to help it?” Reiner asks at last, turning to them again.  “Maybe – at least argue its case?”

They smile a bit sadly.  “It's admirable that you two want to help it, but you're much too late.  Anything _you_ say for it will only damn the beast more in their eyes.”

Reiner wearies visibly, dropping his gaze to the worn, cracked tiles beneath them.  

“I see.”  

He doesn't see.  Bertholdt knows that.  But, so lost in the abyss of his own thoughts, he does not say anything.  He can only pull Reiner close enough for their arms to touch and stare at the mural behind the strange person.  

The oddest shaft of sunlight from the holes in the ceiling illuminates the magnificent carving, gleaming off the rich mahogany teeth of a terrifying wooden dragon.  A full-breasted and full-bearded Viking woman brandishes a fearsome spear, plunging the tip into the writhing serpent.  It is a majestic monument to Viking art and culture, beautiful and barbaric in equal turn.  But despite that, Bertholdt's gaze is drawn to an insignificant detail.  

Beneath one clawed foot of the stylized monster sits a clutch of scaly eggs, so tiny but done with exquisite delicacy.  The intimate detail is almost absurdly fantastic for such a large-scale piece.  Almost like the author wanted the eye to be drawn to them.   Bertholdt fancies it the artist’s silent protest to the savagery of glorious warriors.  

At last, he and Reiner are coming to terms with their cruelty, at last they are given an opportunity to cleanse themselves of their sins and start a new life.  He doesn't have a doubt that the fierce Chief would let them walk free, or that he and Reiner would claim their freedom.  A chance at redemption – redemption so desperately needed.

But of course Fate's cruel spurn of the tale would be punishment.  For their freedom, the price is these heavy burdens, the shared yoke around their necks, the unshakeable knowledge that innocent blood was spilled for their sins.  

First Marco and his sweet eyes and hands, who saw every sin and died trying to escape _his_ clutches.  And now another.  Another he feels in his heart, in his _bones_ , that he could save.  

This is Fate's price for safety.  The Boneknapper's blood.  Bertholdt understands this with terrible clarity, staring at the wooden dragon's frozen scream of fear.  

Shall he save it and reconcile his past, perhaps sacrificing his future in the process?  Or shall he keep his mouth shut and await that tempting future, letting the blood run free over the cobblestones?  

Bertholdt already knows which he will choose.  

He hangs his head.

Bertholdt is a coward.

* * *

 

I wake blearily to another weight bouncing on the bed.  Humming, I lift my head from the soft pillow.  I rub the sleep out of my eyes, stretch like a cat, and turn slowly to face the disturber.

Jean presses fingers as icy as winter to my abdomen.  I squeak and jump backwards.  His fingers chase after me, offendingly cold on my warm skin.  I blink at him sleepily, scandalized. 

He laughs and snuggles closer, pressing his fingers right back against me.  “Morning,” he murmurs, bowing his head against my chest.  His breath feathers over my collar bones. 

“You’re an ass, to wake me like that,” I sigh, breaking off with a sleepy chuckle.  “Cuddles would’ve been so much nicer.”

He nestles closer, still hiding his face.  “I will remember.  Cuddles.  Then cold fingers.”

“No, no cold fingers.  I do not like cold fingers.” 

“Yes cold fingers.  Would you like them to fall off?  Caress your face with my nubby hands?”

“You’re not doing much face caressing even with your pretty hands,” I laugh, throwing my arm over him.  “Besides, you’ve survived this long without your fingers falling off.  I think you can survive a little longer.”

“I had the bed,” he points out.  “Warm bed.”  He touches his fingers against mine.  “Your fingers are hot.  Mine were, too.  Now I need your warm tummy.” 

I yelp as he mercilessly thrusts his fingers back against my stomach.  “Hey!  You’re cold!”

“Yes, I am.  Thank you for your service.”

“So cruel,” I laugh, shaking my head.  Shuffling closer, I murmur, “Here’s a compromise: how about we share the bed from now on?”  I cup his jaw with one hand, gently lifting his gaze to mine.  “No more cold hands for anyone.”

His cheeks flush scarlet and he pulls away, coughing.  “Nooo.  No.  Bad idea.”

“Oh.”  I frown.  “Okay.  Whatever you want to do.”

“It’s not –”  He glances down his hands, biting his lips.  “I would, but – but I, ah.  You are.  _Yes_.  _That_.  And I…”  He shivers, making an almost purring noise, and hides his face.  “ _Aye_.  Yes.  Okay?”

I furrow my brow.  “…You don’t want to sleep in the same bed as me because you’re afraid you’ll get a hard on?” 

He presses his face against my chest and nods emphatically.  A little impressed with my own ability to translate that mess, I chuckle and cuddle him tightly closer

“You’re so funny.”  I press a kiss to the top of his head.  “Okay, Jean.  But at least take a few blankets, I don’t want you to freeze.”

“Hmmmm.”  He shifts, curling up beside me with a happy smile.  “Later.  Now, I am warming my hands.”

His icy fingers press against my chest.  I hiss, recoiling with a jerk. 

“Jean!  Cut that out!”

Giggling, Jean catches up with me anyway.  “Cold hands, Marco.  Cold hands.”

“I know, Thor, I know!”  I squirm away from him, pressing my back against the edge of the bed.  “Stay back, heathen.”

I yelp at the feel of cold fingers on my stomach all the same.  “You’re incorrigible!”

“You like me all the same,” he says smugly. 

“Keep this up and we’ll see about that.”  But his words had struck a chord of warmth in my heart; I wrap him up in my arm, pulling our bodies flush together.  I wince a bit as his cold fingers shamelessly creep up my torso. 

Sighing blissfully, he nudges the cool backs of his palms against my sternum.  His expression is one of near-ecstasy.  I roll my eyes exaggeratedly to show him that he’s _absolutely ridiculous_ , but my leg hooks over his hips and draws him closer to me. 

“You’re so warm,” he says, a bit in awe. 

“Viking blood,” I grin, beaming proudly down on him.  “I’m toasty, aren’t I?  Armin said once it’s because my heart’s big and strong.  Pumps plenty of warm blood.”

Jean looks up at me sharply.  “How does Armin know you’re warm?!”

“Peace, Jean,” I say, running a hand along the fuzzy back of his hair.  “We were just talking about it.  There’s no need to be jealous of him.”

Jean harrumphs and latches more persistently onto my side, almost territorially.  He glares distracted down at nothing in particular with a furrowed brow and a black scowl that would make Thor tremble in his boots. 

“Jean,” I laugh, slightly exasperated, “peace.  You have nothing to fear.  If anything, I should be the jealous one.”

Jean looks up at me sharply, narrowing his pretty eyes.  “Oh?”  

I shrug, uncomfortable beneath his hawkish scrutiny.  “Well, yeah.  Obviously.”

He frowns deeply and props himself up on one arm, expression of poorly concealed confliction.  “Not... Not ‘obviously’.  Why...?  Why do you say that?”

“Well, I mean...”  A self-conscious laugh trembles from my lips, and I turn my face away from him.  “Jean... I'm really...  Well, I'm not exactly the ‘catch’ in this... thing...”

Jean's brow furrows so deeply he looks like one of the grumpy owls of Berk.  He tips his head to one side, his lips parting, but he does not speak – his eyes ask the question, pose his confusion, expressing innocent misunderstanding more than words ever could.  

 _Give me a moment_ , I beg with my eyes.  He nods and sinks slowly back into the pillows.  But his eyes, seeking and intense – they never leave my face.  

I clear my throat and flip onto my back, slinging my arm over my head.  The ice above us glistens blue green, lit by the frail morning sun.  I watch a single droplet travel down the rough, pockmarked wall in silence for a long, moment.  The room is quiet aside from distant dragons and Jean and I’s breathing.  I wish I could say it brought me peace.  

“Jean, you’re...”  I shake my head and laugh, slightly rueful.  “You’re... _absolutely_ incredible.  I'm a bit surprised I have to... explain this to you... but not _only_ are you gorgeous, but you’re funny.  Funny and talented and so, so smart.  You're so amazing, Jean.  You are the epitome of a ‘catch’.  Odin, I'm so lucky to wake up to your cold fingers.”

He ducks his head into the pillow, trying to hide the bashful smile and gentle rose blossoms that appear across his face.  “Flatterer,” he accuses.

I can't help but laugh.  “I wish, Jean.  You’re intimidatingly perfect.”  

One curious eye peeks out from the pillow.  “But...?”

“No buts.”  My smile falters.  “Well, maybe one.  It’s got really nothing to do with you.  More with me, actually.”

He pulls his face from its hidey hole and watches me patiently, clearing expecting something more.  

“Jean, it’s not really... _hard_ to understand,” I explain with a sad chuckle.  “I’m a one-armed Viking with a frankly unimpressive career.  I’m a right fool compared to you.  I can't even swing a proper battleaxe, or open a damn jar of pickled herring.  You... lovely and amazing as you are... could honestly do a lot better.”  

I avoid his searching gaze adamantly, but after a moment, I hastily tack on, “Not that I'm trying to get rid of you!  I just... You asked,” I finish lamely, closing my eyes.  

Jean is quiet.  

For a long time, nothing happens.  

Or maybe it isn't a long time.  Maybe the seconds only inch past, slow as dripping honey, to me, and the world carries on as normal around me.  

I gulp down my nerves, the crackle in my ears deafeningly loud. 

Without an inkling of what he might do, I freeze when I hear him shifting his weight beside me.  The worst case scenarios begin playing in my mind

The cold pads of his fingers brush very lightly against the knotted skin of my stump.  Instinctively, I yank it away, and a weight sinks down onto my chest, a sharp chin digging into my sternum.  With a glance down at the man now nestled happily between my legs, the protest dies on my lips.  His smoldering eyes, swimming with an emotion I cannot name, melt away my will to refuse him anything. 

Carefully, he reaches up and massages my arm gently.  His fiery eyes never leave mine, gauging my expression.  Swallowing nervously, I offer a brittle smile.  And, as if it’d been waiting for a cue, the rest of his body weight eases down on top of me. 

“You are very wrong,” he says quietly, but with an unmistakable tremor of frustration in his voice. “You are... so fucking wrong, Marco.”

It's my turn to wait.  And so I do.  I silence all the niggling doubts and objections and even my blooming curiosity for what he has to say.  I shut my mouth.  And wait.  

“You... you...  I cannot tell you what I want to,” Jean growls, sounding frustrated.  He digs his chin into my chest, and his brow furrows, giving his face a cross, darkened look. 

“But,” he continues determinedly, “I will try.  I do not think your arm... makes you any less... _strong_.  You had one arm when... Orochi?  Yes?”

I nod hesitantly.

“See?”  He smiles through his frustration.  “You are stronger than most men with two arms.   _So_ strong.  Everywhere.  Armin – he was right about your heart.”

Jean shuffles until his ear rests on the left side of my chest, his legs tangling between mine.  He listens in silence for a few peaceful seconds, fingers still tracing soothing patterns over the stump of my arm.

“So strong,” he sighs happily.  “Big, strong heart.”  He peeks up at me shyly.  “You laugh.  So much.  Because of your big, strong heart, your... strong hands... and your gentleness.  Laughing and smiling.  After everything.  There is nothing – _nothing_ – better than that.

“Armin would be a lucky bastard to have you.  I am one.  I am... _such_ a lucky fuckin’ asshole, even for… just _looking_ at you.”

I launch upright in bed, smashing our mouths together with a giddy kiss.  He squeaks against my lips, but his body melts quickly against me with a heady giggle, arms snaking around my back to keep me close.  My hand laces through his silky hair, bringing him deeper.  

It begins as a chaste kiss, innocent like children playing in beach foam, but so, so wonderful.  He pulls away when I try to deepen it, shoulders shaking with laughter, but he only moves far enough to look down into my eyes.  Panting, I blink to clear the blur from my vision, focusing on him. 

“...I am a lucky asshole, aren't I?” Jean asks almost shyly, tracing a finger delicately along my cheekbone.  “I am yours?  And you are...?”

My arm slides down his back, gripping his hips and pulling our bodies together.  “Yours, Jean.  I am yours.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Jean slings his arms around my neck and knits his fingers in the hair at the back of my neck.  He bumps our noses together with a giggle.  

“You're so goddamn cute,” I laugh, a happy, flutteriness claiming my stomach.  My cheeks hurt from smiling but I can't seem to stop – not with him curled up beside me, not with his honey-gold eyes fixed so reverently on mine.  

Cupping his cheek, I angle his face so that our eyes are level.  “You have nothing to fear from anyone else, Jean.  My heart belongs to you, only you.  Would you like me to…”

I trail off, my mind catching up with my tongue.  I tilt my head to one side, chewing on my bottom lip.  An untouched corner of my memory stirs to life – a fresh deluge of emotions, sour, painful, and heartwarming, ebb back into my conscious mind. 

 “Do you want to hear about how I lost my arm?” I offer hesitantly.  “…I've never told anyone all the gory details...  You’ll know more about me than my own mother, my own siblings.  To – to prove, that you’re… that you have my heart.”

Jean's eyes widen far enough for me to see myself in their reflection.  I feel their intensity focus on me.  One of his hands drop down from my neck and gently move to caress the nub of my arm, and the other laces gently through my hair.

“Are you sure?” he asks quietly.  

I swallow down a building lump in my throat.  “I mean, yeah.  I wouldn’t offer it if I wasn’t prepared to tell you.  And… you told me about what happened to you.  So I trust you.”

My hand works on its own accord, cupping a side of his long, slender face.  He fits so perfectly in my palm, it makes my heart ache.  Jean smiles warmly and leans into my touch, pressing light kisses to my thumb as it traces over his lips.  We sink back to the mattress slowly, without any need for hurrying, lost in a moment of tender adoration. 

 “So long as you are okay,” Jean says, his voice a hushed whisper, “I want to hear.” 

When I nod affirmatively, he presses a kiss to my forehead and then rolls off of my body.  Propping himself up on the pillow, he sits ready and attentive beside me.  The hand tracing the gentle, snowflaking patterns into the stump of my arm doesn’t move, though – its weight on my chest is reassuring without being overbearing.  I let it remain, content with his presence. 

I kiss his forehead tenderly and let my body fall heavily back against the mattress again.  Jean, carrying on with his massage, waits patiently for me to find my words.  His ginger touch makes me feel safer, a physical anchor to him and the world around me. 

Everything happened a long time ago, of course.  But trauma is a wound.  And like any wound, it infects if it is closed hastily with thick thread and blunt needles without washing the dirt from the sore.  One who does not care to cleanse, to receive help and accept the healing – one who sews it shut impatiently to have it over with, who ignores the severity of their injury – is doomed to have it reopened again and again.  The horrible memories can fester worse than any wound, like a plague of the mind, and I know it better than any. 

That said, my wound wasn’t cleaned properly.  I had the stitches torn open time and time again, none of it by my own accord, and I always was left in a daze of pain worse than the last.  It feels – _odd,_ to say the least, to be the one prying these memories from their tightly sealed case in the back of my mind.

But it couldn’t have been easy for Jean, either.  And so I press onwards. 

With a brittle laugh, I confess, “I don’t think you’d recognize me back then.  If our paths ever crossed… I was very different.  Tiny little kid, weedy as could be, bad teeth and no hope of a beard.  Still don’t have a lot of hair, but I hope I’ve gotten a bit better than that.”

“You have,” Jean blurts.  He shakes his head, blushing.  “Sorry.  Continue.”

I spare a moment to chuckle.  Despite the warmth in my heart, my chest feels hollow and dry, and my laughter sounds just the same, even to my own ears.  Already, a small tremble runs through my entire body. 

“When – it happened,” I say with difficulty, each of the words forced out by a thick, unwilling tongue, “no one really… _cared_ about me.  I really, _really_ blended into the background.  I was _really_ good at being nobody.  I ended up with a damn Hotburple – can you _see_ me with a Hotburple, Jean?”

Jean’s strangled squawk is answer enough.  His lips curl upwards in a guilty smile.  

“Right, me neither.  It was _awful_.  But you know Kitts – and me, too, I guess.  It wasn’t a match made in heaven, but I did love the damn thing.  It didn’t listen to me, but it did snuggle up against me every night.  And for a kid whose only friend was a blacksmithing criminal, it was… Thor, it was great. 

“So one day, when we were doing activities to – what were they for?  The ones where he would have us do ridiculously dangerous stuff with our dragons?”

Jean nods.  “Bonding sessions.  If you almost die together.  You live together.  Stupid ass lessons.”

“Right,” I agree with a roll of my eyes.  “Stupid, stupid lessons.  So, on that day, there was a giant storm rolling in, the sort that made Shadis order all the ships back to dock, that made even good ol’ Berk hunker down for a few hours.  And Kitts snuck me and a few other kids out during this giant ass storm… with ranging amounts of success.”

A dark rage floods Jean’s expression.  His eyebrows wrinkle in a black scowl, eyes glitter dangerously.  The gentle fingers twirling over my knotted skin curl into a tight fist. 

“Peace, Jean,” I laugh tonelessly.  “It was… a long time ago.  And like I said, good did come of it – during the heart of the storm, Mikasa first stumbled upon a Skrill she would come to bond with.  That’d never happened before, so… it was regarded as a success.” 

“Despite what happened to you?!” Jean fumes stubbornly. 

“You don’t even know what happened to me,” I remind him gently, strangely touched by his anger.  “It was an accident.  And I don’t blame them for thinking that I’d died.  They found whatever good had come from it and they clung to it – that was Mikasa.  And that’s good, that’s okay.”

He scowls irately.  “You’re too nice.  That fucking _sucks_.”

“Jean – let me tell my story?” I implore with a heavy sigh.  “I mean – thank you for sticking up for me, I guess, but – “

“Of course,” Jean blurts, bowing his head like a scolded child.  “Sorry, continue.”

“It’s okay, Jean.”  I press a kiss to the top of his head.  “You really are too sweet.  But.  So there I was, riding a slow, sluggish Hotburple in the midst of a terrible monster of a storm.  A Skrill was in the clouds, which we knew about, and a Scauldron down below, which we did not.  The Hotburple and I both figured that we didn’t stand a chance against anything as menacing as a Skrill – he ducked low over the stormy ocean, little wings beating as hard as they could, and I let him. 

“Turns out, the Scauldron was being harassed by a pack of Seashockers  It was invisible from the surface, didn’t have a fucking clue.  It must’ve been a big fight, because as that Hotburple was flying over those waves doggedly, the Scauldron’s head bucked out of the sea, spraying boiling water in a lunatic desperation.  The Hotburple and I got doused.”

Jean hisses.  His fingers swirl faster than ever, their touch still soft, though the coolness now warmed. 

“It didn’t bother the Hotburple too much, as you’d imagine – damn dragons have hides thicker than Shadis’ skull – but it bothered _me_.  We didn’t have what I have with Orochi, but when I started screaming bloody murder, well, _that_ bothered _it_.  Poor bastard crashed into the Scauldron’s neck, and we both went into the ocean.”

I take a measured breath in, pretending that I don’t hear it shivering as it comes out again.  Jean curls protectively against me.  He can probably feel the shaking better than I can, with my mind so far away from this present. 

“It was – so cold, so fucking cold, and the water was black as sin.  I didn’t – I didn’t know which way was up, the salt went up my nose and I panicked and flailed.  And when I opened my eyes to the cold salt water and saw the shocks of the Seashockers below me, well, I knew I didn’t want to go _that_ way.  So I went up, and even when I gasped and the sky lit up with lightning overhead, I _still_ couldn’t see for shit.  There was – a dragon flew above me and I screamed for help but the waves crashed down and –”

I break off with another shuddering breath.  I can actually feel the trembling now, feel it in my chest, in my legs, down my spine, in the hand around Jean.  Instinctively, I clutch him tighter, reassured minutely by his solidness. 

“When I swam back up, I saw the Hotburple.  It was surrounded by Seashockers.  Because, you know – if you were a sea scavenger and you were hungry, would you go after a defiant Scauldron or a weak, half-drowned dragon?”  I pause for a dry chuckle.  “He squealed and thrashed and fought until the very end, and I tried to swim forward to help him but – he was ripped apart.  Right in front of me.”

“Odin, Marco,” Jean murmurs.  I hold him tightly to my chest, more for an anchor in this now than anything else. 

There are things I do not tell him.  I do not tell him how it wailed, how it swam towards me in vain hope of rescue.  I do not tell him how it reared its head from the water while the thunder crashed and drowned out its cries.  I do not tell him of the lightning that formed silver sickles in its pale yellow eyes when it met my gaze and bleated for salvation, and how the salt clogged my throat when I screamed its name, how my numb legs pumped fruitlessly in the pitch black sea.  I do not mention the horrible, sticky warmth of the water as I drew nearer, and how a red tinge clung to my clothes for weeks afterwards.  I do not tell him that the warmth of its spilled blood was the only reason I didn’t freeze and die there beside it in the cold, dark sea. 

It is not that I don’t trust him with the gruesome details – Jean would understand the horror of it all better than any, I think.  But it is also… raw.

Dirt in the wound.  Dirt that must be cleaned.  _But not now._  

“Once they – ate it, I knew I had to act fast,” I sigh, shaking my head slowly.  “I didn’t think about waiting for help or anything.  I just figured the lightning would strike me if I stuck around, and that a Hotburple was nowhere near as big as a Scauldron, so they’d still be hungry.  So I turned and I swam as hard and as fast away from there as I could. 

“It turns out that I was right.  It’s – it’s all a blur, now, but I made it pretty far before the Seashockers caught up with me.  And they were mean sons of bitches – they’d appear in waves beside me, blink below me, brush against my legs, anything to keep my adrenaline pumping.  I owe my survival to that, probably, but fuck, I hated it. 

“They kept that up for – I don’t even _know_ how long.  A long time.  Finally, I reached some gods-forsaken island that was all soaring black cliffs and pounding surf, but – it was hope.  The Seashockers realized that, and they got… nippy.”

“You have a bite mark on your calf,” Jean says, brow furrowed, gaze fixed on a distant point.  “From them?”

“From them,” I confirm.  “Thought they were going to take my damn leg off that time.  Most of the bites were little things, scars that’re long gone by now.  A wave smashed me against one of those barnacle-y cliffs and I clung on with _two_ shaking, exhausted arms.  I just about collapsed right there.  My adrenaline crashed real bad, and I thought I’d made it.

“But the Seashockers had fought hard to eat me, too.  One of them rode up on the next big wave, and I saw it coming in my periphery.  Those long fins stuck out of the water.  It smacked against the cliff beside me, but its jaws – well.  It bit off my fucking arm and fell back into the ocean.”

I laugh humorlessly, and Jean’s arms wrap securely around me.  He presses his face against my ribcage, squeezing me tight. 

I, again, don’t tell him everything.  About the scream.  The blinding pain.  The way that moment would haunt my every sleep – how I still fear the image of the Seashocker’s cold eyes as it crashed back into the ocean, an image I’m not sure I ever saw, or if it was just a figment of my imagination.  All I know is that I can _see_ it, in my mind’s eye, down to my blood trailing behind it as it falls. 

“Everything was kind of blur at that point – it fucking _hurt like hell_.  I was too exhausted to do anything but… shiver and clutch the rocks.  My vision was going black, I felt my mind slipping.  Apparently beneath me, the dragons in the water were preparing for round two, because… well.  From above, I saw the bright flash of a Night Fury’s bolt hitting the water.  I thought ‘oh, shit’ and passed out.  I guess I must’ve fallen, but when I woke up, it was in a cave.”

“Orochi saved you?” Jean murmured in confusion.

“Best I can figure.  That or some other friendly dragon.  Still not sure why – Night Furies are some of the most congenial dragons, but they’re solitary in life.”

“Congenial.”  He pokes my stomach.  “Big word.”

I roll my eyes at him.  “Hush, you.  When I woke up, it must’ve not been very long since then, because I hadn’t bled out.  I made myself an awful bandage with my shirt and hoped for the best.  The unholy offspring of lightning and death watching me from the mouth of the cave made things more stressful, but I took things one step at a time.  Miraculously, I didn’t get an infection.  I was hindered for a long, long time, but Orochi brought fish and there were herbs I recognized on the island.  I lived there for – eight moons?”

“Eight moons?” Jean repeats, sitting up.  “Why did it take you so long?”

“Shy kid mentality, Jean.”  I shake my head, smiling.  “Orochi was scarier than Shadis in nothing but his britches.  It took me a good few months to not tiptoe around him.”

Jean hums and rests his head on my chest.  I can see the gears turning in his head, but he mulls it over silently. 

“So, yeah.”  I absentmindedly run my fingertips through his hair.  “Learned how to act around dragons there.  There were a bunch of little Terrors there permanently and all sorts of migrating guests.  Eventually, I returned to Berk on the back of an adorable Night Fury and a flock of the little dragons.  Worked as a soldier and stableman for the Berk militia for a few years, but then I answered my calling as a Dragon Academy instructor.  Was happy there until all this happened.”

Jean is quiet for a moment.  “I am shit at comfort,” he announces matter-of-factly.  “…But… I am sorry.”

I’ve been told that a thousand times, but it sounds… more genuine, coming from Jean. 

“I’ll be honest,” I sigh, scratching gently at his scalp, “I just want affection.  Like, lots of it.”

Jean flips over on top of my stomach without preamble.  My breath huffs because of his sudden weight, craning my neck to peer down at him.  His elbows sink into the mattress on either side of my ribs, trapping me against the bed, and his legs settle comfortably between my own.  Humming, he drops his head down onto his laced hands, directly on top of my sternum. 

His heavy body on top of mine is welcome – a physical weight to keep me grounded in this present, keep my attention on the _now_ and on _him_ instead of the ghosts of my past.  I peek down at him, and he smiles. 

“Strong heart,” Jean croons.  He presses a gently kiss to my chest beneath his hands.  “You are _much_ stronger than I thought.  I wish I… could’ve helped.  Helped you.”

“Oh, Jean, it’s okay,” I say.  “You’re here now.  That’s more than enough.”

I lace my fingers back through his hair, massaging gently circles through his hair.  He rumbles a throaty sigh, almost like a purr, and collapses against my chest, head crashing down overtop my heart.  But his weight is nothing, I _am_ strong, maybe not in the way he means, but I am a Viking of Berk – and his weight sits easily atop me. 

 _We fit together nicely_ , I notice.  Struck with adoration, I tilt my head to admire him, and as if he can sense my attention, he smiles cutely. 

Without opening his eyes, he says, “That’s why you were afraid of falling?  When we were flying?”

My hand freezes mid-caress.  “Yes.”

His fingernails curl against me.  “You were scared.”

“Yes.”

“But you did it anyway.”  He lifts his head back on top of his taut hands, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes soft.  “You were scared, and you did it anyway.”

I curl forward and press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose.  It’s slightly cold.  “The thing about that is, Jean, for you, I’d face all of my fears.  I’d look all of my worst nightmares dead in the eye and spit.  Every last one.  Jean, I’d sail to the edge of the world and just stand there, daring the demons to try and make a snatch at me if it made you happy.”  I grin sheepishly.  “I’m just a bit smitten, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“ _Just a bit_ ,” Jean echoes with an overwhelmed laugh.  His nails dig painfully into my chest. 

“Hmm, yeah,” I beam.  “Just a bit.  Take your pick of words – besotted, enamored, infatuated.  They all work.”

Cheeks going crimson, he smacks my chest.  “Shut up, stupid Viking!” he hisses, pressing his face into my abdomen.  His sharp nose tickles, but he slaps me again when I giggle a protest. 

My heart beats painfully in my chest, as loud as a drum. 

As much as I would love for him to vow himself to me to the degree I have, I cannot expect it.  Just as he knows I cannot vow to stay here with Jean, I cannot ask Jean to give himself up. 

But I know.  Jean’s love is fragile and free and never to be chained.  Just like the rest of him.  Just like his dancing.  That’s okay.  He has given me enough. I will take the little of it I have and treasure it. 

And so as the silence stretches on while Jean’s lips struggle to form words he cannot voice without betraying his own fickle affection, my faith and adoration builds for him.  At last, just when he seems on the verge of confessing things not meant to be said, I lean forward and cut him off with a kiss. 

“It’s okay, Dragon,” I murmur.

He sighs and relaxes back onto my chest.  The trust for him to let go of that so easily, this man who tiptoed around me for weeks – it is a grand reward, far grander than any forced affections he may offer.  Sleepy and content, I let my eyes drift closed, soothed by the return of his fingers on my stump.

“You’re even more beautiful now,” Jean says casually as he throws a leg over my hips, shifting so that my bicep pillows his head.  “Just so you know.”

I peer sideways at him.  “Oh?” 

“Mmhmmm.”  His fingers trace lazy patterns against my skin, glyphs I recognize – _health, prosperity, protection._   “Not perfect.  But… beautiful.  I know – I know the story now.  It makes everything you are… better.”

“Thank you, Jean,” I say.  “You’re a right charmer.”

He harrumphs, still tracing runes.  _Courage, strength, discipline_.  “No.  Don’t think so.” 

“I do.”  My voice is quiet.  “You mean… quite a lot to me, Jean.  And you’re not the best with words, but you say what you mean.  You speak truly.  It’s… nice.”

“Oh?”  _Wisdom, joy, peace._

“Aye.”  I press my face into his soft hair, kissing it gently.  “You speak beautifully.  I wasn’t lying when I said I liked nearly everything about you, Jean.” 

He hums happily, falling into the same cozy daze as me.  His fingers change course mid-longevity rune, and the next one takes me longer to identify.  But sleep comes quickly over me, it always has – and the ease in my heart from Jean’s gentle caresses does nothing to slow it. 

My mind works slowly, but before it slips away entirely, I manage to recall the sharp pattern he traces again and again.

_Love._

_Love._

_Love._

Smiling, I fall happily into the arms of slumber with Jean curled by my side.

* * *

 

Life in the village sucks. 

There isn’t a more eloquent way to put it, no fancy silver lining to mask it all behind.  There is no bright side or pros to go with the cons.  It’s a frustrating, messy, pile of misery that Mina honestly wants no part in. 

Life in the village _normally_ is pretty crappy.  It isn’t sunny, the dragons get cranky with the absurd amounts of rainfall, and the abundant elders do nothing but squabble amongst themselves and curse her generation.  But there’s usually ups.  Like non-cranky dragons.  Or fresh-baked bread.  Or a rare glimmer of sunlight. 

Or dragon classes. 

Or _Marco_. 

Her heart cinches a little in her chest.  Mina takes a measured breath, pausing for half a second on the trail to collect herself. 

A lot of things have been sucking about the village lately, but Marco’s absence… it’s hit her hard.

Post-disappearance grieving and searching had thrown a wrench in Thomas and her’s studies with the dragons.  He’d luckily been able to keep up training with his Hobblegrunt, though progress had been slow, if progress was made at all, without a gentle voice over his shoulder.  Mina hadn’t advanced at all.  Distracted by the events at hand, Levi hadn’t been able to spare his Windstrikers, and she was too terrified to attempt any other bonding. 

Now, the village is a complete wreck.  Houses have burnt down from the Boneknapper’s flames, some of Marco’s murderers have been apprehended, and the tribe is in social shambles again with the crippling of poor Thomas. 

Her heart grows cold.  _Stupid, stupid Thomas…_  

Continuing at a brisk pace, Mina stews over the hopelessness of her situation to pass the time until she reaches the waste pit to discard of the smelly garbage slung over her shoulders. 

Any replacement for Marco won’t be anywhere near as good.  This is a fact everyone knows, but that none except his mother acknowledge.  Anyone chosen will be too forceful, too showy, too traditionally _Viking_ ; she doubts they’ll be able to work together like Marco had worked with her. 

That said, there isn’t much pressure to find a new teacher.  Not with the only promising pupil unlikely to ever be able to ride a dragon again. 

She kicks a stray dead fish into the waste pit bitterly.  Wrinkling her nose from the smell, she hauls the bags of trash off of her shoulders and slings them heavily to the ground. 

The waste pit is a relatively new concept.  With the fresh ideology of Erwin came such a revolutionary idea as separating the places people lived from those they shitted and left their garbage.  The elders bitched about it to no end, but Mina can’t imagine what life must’ve been like before the waste pits.  She thinks it was probably stinky. 

The piles of garbage, young as they are, aren’t but so large.  They do not loom in petering towers or spread as far as the eye can see.  But the _smell_ – it’s horrific.  Not even scavenging Terrible Terrors pick through the trash anymore. 

Coughing into her arm, Mina pulls the bag’s knot open.  A fresh wave of the stench rolls over her.  Her eyes actually begin to water with the putrid scent.  Pulling back and turning away from the pit, she gasps for clean air. 

_Odin, she hates the waste pit._

There is a sound of stirring within the piles behind her, a clatter like pottery against metal.  Well, maybe she was wrong.  Maybe there are some Terrors noseblind enough to brave the stench for scraps.  She shakes her head in exasperation. 

On the edge of the trash pile, Mina spies a whittled log.  She frowns and grabs it delicately between two fingers.  The wood isn’t wet itself, nor is it in any other way inferior.  It’s a failed experiment, probably the attempt of the woodworker’s apprentice at creating an intimately carved statuettes. 

But to throw it away is wasteful.  This could be easily used to fuel a fire so desperately needed by so many Berk homes.  Sighing, Mina tucks the log in her belt and makes a mental note to scold the woodworker’s apprentice. 

_Isn’t one of Marco’s sisters the woodworker’s apprentice?_

Maybe not, then.  The family has enough on their plates.

The Terror is louder than before, burrowing through the piles of trash with admirable determination.  Mina hopes it doesn’t destroy the piles.  Maybe it would be smart to chase it away.  After all, Terrors are always up to trouble in some way or another. 

Deliberating for a moment, she decides that if it _is_ up to trouble, she doesn’t want to be around when it makes a mess and risk getting blamed. 

She quickly turns and empties the bag of garbage onto the piles.  The smell is revolting – she wrinkles her nose and scowls.  In one corner of her mind, as she dumps out the waste, she wonders why the Terror is quite so loud.  For such a tiny dragon, it’s making an awful lot of noise. 

Then, in the corner of her eye, she spots it. 

She freezes, hands clenching around the rough burlap, mouth hanging open.  Her own breath sounds ragged to her ears, coming out in fearful pants.  The heart beating in her chest hammers against her ribs, as if trying to escape.  Slowly, ever so slowly, she turns her head towards it. 

A monstrous beast in armor of death itself.  Pale yellow eyes.  Sickly green skin.  Long, scythes of claws, picking delicately through the trash.  Around its neck where Njord’s jaws had trapped it, crusted blood and raw wounds, streaks of redness down the white bone. 

As she watches, the monster hops over a pile of trash, pausing on the top to claw the garbage it’d picked through neatly back into the mound.  It hops over the tops of mounds, causing discarded tins and pots to rattle off and hit the ground.  Each hill, it inspects, sniffs, and abandons for the next one. 

Had it noticed her?  Probably.  Undoubtedly.  She cringes as she thinks of storming up here and coughing like a child; _stupid, stupid_. 

But why had it not acted?

She stares at its expressionless face as it leafs through a stack of broken inkpots and in that moment, it really hits her.  She remembers what this beast is, what this beast has done. 

The crippler of Thomas, the murderer of Marco. 

A cold fist seizes her heart. 

Her axe lies on her table back at home, and she carries no weapons beside it.  For lack of something, anything, better, she unlatches the wooden log from her belt.  It fits poorly in her hand, but its weight gives her a teensy bit of hope. 

Standing upright, Mina holds the makeshift club fiercely in her closed fist.  

It spares her no more than a disinterested side-eye.  Huffing, it returns indifferently to its rifling. 

A spark of rage ignites in her heart.  Fury pounds hotly through her veins.  Her grip tightens on her club, her stance widens into a that of a fighter’s.  Peeling her lips back in a bitter snarl, she summons a Viking war cry from the pit of her belly. 

She pours all of her frustration, her grief, her rage into the roar.  It’s a bellow with the force to shake Valhalla, inciting a sense of feral pride in Mina’s heart.  Baring her teeth, she snarls at the beast, challenging it to a fight. 

The Boneknapper lifts its sickly head out of annoyance more than anything.  Its yellow eyes fix calmly on her, unwavering and deadly.  It snarls, low and threatening, bones clattering along its back and on its chest. 

Mina brandishes the club in front of her and roars louder, angrier.  It thunders up from deep within her, it echoes fiercely through the valley – she narrows her eyes and sinks down, ready to face the monster. 

But the Boneknapper does not charge.  It does not growl or rebuke, stamp its skeletal feet and snap at the air with long fangs.  Those ugly eyes fix on the club. 

A low mewl escapes its jaws.  Its bones tremble, but no longer with the ferocity of a snarl.  Hopping down from the mound of trash, it presses its skeletal belly submissively to the floor, slinking forward in a slow, groveling fashion. 

Mina pauses.  Out of all responses she could’ve received, this is one she least expected. 

The Boneknapper creeps closer, its head held so low to the ground that its chin plows through the foul mud.  With each reluctant step towards her, its eyes roll back into its head.  It mewls and whines and trembles pathetically, and it refuses to look her in the eye.   

For half a second, she glimpses the pale yellow of its eyes as they dart nervously towards the club. 

 _The club?_  

Instinctively, she lifts it as she stares down at the crude weapon, dumbfounded.  The Boneknapper immediately flinches away, pressing impossibly further into the mud.  The blood on its cracked yellow bones mixes with the mud like sloppy painting. 

 _Oh.  It’s deathly afraid of the club._  

Her heart clenches with a pity for the undeserving Boneknapper.  As the club falls back down by her side, she notices the pockmarks of chipped and dented bones making up its magnificent armor.  Such crude marks would have had to be made by a weapon such as her club.  Echoes of Marco’s lessons ring in her ears – vague lessons about crueler ways of controlling dragons, the way things should never be done. 

_Only the cruelest of people beat their dragons into obedience.  Dragons that have been abused become anxious and riddled with all sorts of odd and dangerous behavior.  You never know what to expect from an abused dragon, but you should never, ever blame one for anything it does.  At best, it is obeying the command of whatever vindictive fucker abused it.  At worst, it’s fighting off its own demons._

For a moment, and a moment only, Mina is conflicted.  The thought of forgiving this awful monster makes her scowl blackly, vehemently against letting the beast free in any form.  But to defy Marco’s words – even if the damned thing killed him – would make her even worse.  Mina doesn’t dare go against the dead. 

Fine.  She’ll give the monstrosity a chance. 

It’s reacting very specifically to the weapon in her hand, not her appearance or shouting.  Racking her brain, she can’t think of anyone that’s yet faced the Boneknapper with a club.  So this new behavior – this submissive, terrified behavior – isn’t something that any of the other warriors would’ve triggered.  And it hadn’t stayed still long enough for anyone to see the signs of abuse. 

 _Abuse.  It’s afraid I’m going to abuse it._   

She nearly drops her club, sickened so by the thought of anyone hurting any dragon.  Only the fear of attack from the Boneknapper keeps her fingers curled tightly around it. 

Or should she drop it?  Mina isn’t sure. 

After a moment of careful consideration of the beast, cringing and shivering in its clanking bones, Mina decides that she doesn’t want that sort of control over the Boneknapper.  For better or for worse, she doesn’t want to keep the same cruel control as its past masters.  The thought of reopening wounds, of hurting it – she wants to vomit. 

Very, very carefully, she leans down. 

Very, very gradually, the dragon’s hackles rise. 

The tip of the club hits the damp earth. 

The Boneknapper’s eyes snap open. 

With her breath coming out in soft, shuddering pants too loud for her own ears, Mina tenses and prepares to run. 

With a final clanking cacophony like the clicking of crow’s beaks, the shivers running up and down the dragon’s spine cease. 

One of Mina’s fingers peel off the wood. 

And then another. 

And then it hits the ground with a quiet thud. 

For a long, uneasy moment, the Boneknapper’s eyes stay locked on the club.  It’s rolled out of Mina’s grasp, so even if she wanted to snatch it up again, she couldn’t.  Raw loathing burns in those ugly eyes, and Mina’s breath catches in her throat. 

The world seems frozen in that moment, as if she is unable to do anything but watch the Boneknapper.  The tension leaves its body with a clacking ripple down its spine, and those long wings furl back by its sides.  Its heavy feet make terrifying pounding noises as they hit the ground, the Boneknapper adjusting its stance

The moment ends all too soon.  Those hateful eyes snap back to hers, and its lip curls. 

Its neck coils like a snake’s before it strikes.  Mina yelps and throws up her arms in front of her face, closing her eyes to protect them from the dragon’s blazing fire.  She sinks her feet into the muck and braces herself, a sob heaving from her chest, for a blow that never comes.

The Boneknapper hurls its head forward and spreads its maw wide, but all that comes out is a thin, quavering whine. 

Mina’s arms drop hesitantly from in front of her face.  Her stomach churns with a mixture of fanatical gratitude and fearful curiosity.  From over her forearm, she peers at the dragon who just was threatening her doom. 

The Boneknapper shakes its head quickly from side to side, grunting.  Its eyes blink stupidly a few times.  It tries to roar again, this time directing the fury of its bellow towards the ground.  Again, all that it emits is a pathetic whine – the sound of air passing fruitlessly through windpipes. 

Growling, it takes a long claw to poke frustratedly at the bones over its breast.  The entirety of the breastplate is in splinters – Mina gets a kick of satisfaction with the memory of Thomas’ glorious punishing blow.   In the center is the worst of it, and it’s there the Boneknapper claws at.  A long shard is missing from the shattered breastplate, green scales peeking through the crack. 

The long talon slots easily into the chink in its armor.  Growling in frustration, it swings its head back and forth, whining furiously.  Even angrier, it bows its head and tries to roar at the hole, pathetically frustrated. 

Drooping visibly, the Boneknapper slides its claw back out of the hole.  Its foot collides heavily with the ground.  It spares Mina only a miserable glance and a halfhearted growl, hanging its head defeatedly. 

Something clicks in Mina’s brain.  “…You can’t roar without a full set of armor, can you?”

It moans softly, dragging its nose sullenly back and forth through the filth. 

“Oh.”  She surges forward, almost against her will.  “ _Oh_ , you’re just looking for a bone.  You don’t want to hurt me, do you?”

The beast eyes her as she approaches, suddenly brazen.  It offers only a meager growl as she marches closer, closer, and makes no move to stop her.  Soon, mere feet separate her from the terrible creature.    Mina stares up at the great muzzle hovering above her head, held aloft by thin muscle and clattering bone. 

“Will you leave, if I get you your bone?” Mina wonders.  “I don’t think you’ll stick around anymore.  I wouldn’t if I was you.”

The Boneknapper blows a puff of air down on Mina, blinking down at her in confusion.  It doesn’t seem to know what to make of the sudden turn of events. 

Mina beams up at the big dragon.  “You’re nothing to fear, are you?  Not so long as I don’t have a weapon on me.”  Impulsively, she reaches out a hand and presses her palm into the soft skin of its shoulder.  It startles a little, snorting in surprise and shifting its weight.  But it makes no move to throw her off. 

Feeling its judging gaze on the back of her head, Mina massages her hand into its shoulder gently.  Its skin is warm to the touch and light green, dappled with faint white circles.  The muscles beneath are untouched by any masseuses’ hands, or likely any’s hands, and they’re wound more tightly than any she’s ever dealt with before.  As the beast stirs, she can feel the years of being kept in a state of near panic and madness.  It will take more than a meager hand massage to rub the stains of those bad memories from its bones. 

“You poor thing,” Mina murmurs, moving closer, both hands gently pressing into the hard flesh.  “I don’t even want to think about what’s happened to you.”

The dragon rumbles a sigh, head drooping peacefully back to the ground.  The vestiges of fight leak slowly from its body, dissipating with every calculated stroke of her hands.  Mina watches the slow falling of its eyelids over those furious yellow eyes, heart filled with secondhand sadness. 

She pauses for a moment in her ministrations.  “Oh, Thor, what would the Tribe think about you?” Mina sighs, shaking her head. 

The Boneknapper makes a light, inquisitive purr, turning around with wide eyes to face her. 

She studies its open, harmless expression.  Her heart fills with warm forgiveness for the poor beast.  Though perhaps it be undeserving of her affection for what it’d done to Thomas, she cannot find it in herself to blame the dragon at all.  Its behavior was fault of fear and Odin-knows-how-long of abuse from the two interlopers, not true malice.  However, the Tribe may not think it so with their foul turn of moods – definitely not the cranky elders. 

“You’re in danger here, y’know,” Mina says softly.  “I would’ve killed you just now if I could’ve.”

The Boneknapper makes a noise she can only describe as a croon.  It presses its nose hesitantly against her side, an awkward gesture of perhaps – comfort?  The poor thing doesn’t even know how to offer reassurance. 

Shaking her head, Mina comes to a decision. 

“I’ll help you find a bone,” she vows in a whisper.  After a moment of hesitation, she rests her head against the cool bone of its shoulder.  “I’ll help you roar again and keep you as hidden as I can from the Tribe.  So long as you go home afterwards.  Okay?”

In response, the Boneknapper blows warm air gently along the back of her head, sending pleasant warm tingles down her scalp.  Mina decides to take that as a yes.

* * *

 

Life under the Bewilderbeast was dry. 

It was cold, it was empty.  Its shiny husk was encrusted with diamonds, but the reality was hollow and fruitless.  The life of a dragon is one of freedom, yes, one of such overwhelming and glorious wildness that it is so, so easy for Jean to be swept away by its promises.  A life without woe besides the next meal – a life without care, without hate, without even speech, a life of feral innocence – was attractive to Jean. 

 _Still_ is. 

 _Still_ is attractive to Jean. 

The simple monotony of a life under the control of the great Bewilderbeast was blissfully perfect.  He did not need much in those first days.  More than anything, he’d wanted to be free of his crushing guilt, his grief, his resentment – his scars, so fresh and raw, he wanted healed up. 

More than that – Jean never wanted the scars to reopen.  He wanted to shed his skin and emerge something new, someone new.  Someone who never had to feel that way, the hot knot of emotions that tore his heart to pieces. 

So he fell into the routine and forgot.  Forgot his emotions.  Forgot his past.  Forgot who he was, forgot what he was.  Forgot himself. 

And it _was_ perfect – so blissfully perfect. 

The perfect routine. 

Mindless, beautiful, free.  As natural as the beating of his heart.

A routine Jean could’ve endured till his last breath had it not been disrupted by a soft pair of eyes. 

Their color.  Not chocolate or soil.  _Marco._

His chest floods with warmth at the mere thought of the color that only exists in those lovely eyes. 

Jean stares shamelessly across the cavern, amused by Marco’s soft laughter – he’s sitting on the floor, playing with a baby Scuttleclaw Jean recognizes as a particularly headstrong ringleader. 

They alternate between butting heads with affectionate _cracks_ of skull-on-skull and playing tug with the minnows Marco is coaxing down its throat.  He speaks to it in gentle tones bleeding of laughter, a constant smile tugging the corners of his lips upwards.  The baby loves him.  Jean cannot think of something that wouldn’t love those soft, kind eyes. 

_Jean certainly does._

Smiling, Jean leans back and basks in the warmth emanating through his body.  A warmth once alien.  Foreign.  Frightening.  The warmth of love he’d forgotten for so long. 

So, so long. 

 _That_ troubles Jean. 

Marco bleeds warmth.  Laughter.  His heart is light in his chest with a beautiful, simple love for the way of things, like Jean’s simple not-love.  Jean can see it in his eyes. 

Jean is not like that.  This warmth – welcomed.  But _still_ alien.  _Still_ foreign.  And _still_ a little frightening. 

Frowning, he stares wistfully to Orochi off lounging on a distant stone, quietly wondering how to deal with the tangled knots of new, arising fears settled in his chest.  _Can he love after all this time?  Is he unable to care for Marco?_

Because it’s not just that he’s been so far estranged from his emotions, he realizes.  Marco is an entirely new element in his world; _never_ has he experienced the warmth like this, _never_.  Not before with his mother or his teenage flirting or even Eydis.  The warmth that flows through him in tingling waves at Marco’s laughter, the desire to be closer to him both physically and spiritually, to hear everything he has to say.  

The addictive contentedness he got from the Bewilderbeast’s control he can only find when he basks in Marco’s presence. 

Additionally, there’d been the awakening of… natural, human urges.  Things that hadn’t _disappeared_ , per se, but… lessened.  Darting around like a fool, sporting boners like a horny teenager.  It feels downright shameful. 

But it makes _sense._   He understands now – why those soft, kind eyes changed everything, why he had been enraptured with his every word, why Marco rocked the world he lived in.  Jean is simply uncertain how to deal with the aftermath. 

Marco brought about the long-awaited crumble of the reality he so meticulously trapped himself inside of.  His world, that peaceful, exhilerating, and _stagnant_ life, was one always meant for a dragon.  The glory of the nothing, of belonging to the Bewilderbeast – it was all so painfully _temporary._   He understands that now. 

It only worked as long as it did because of the distance between himself and anyone else.  Even Krista and the brightness in her aura was kept at arm’s length – the human warmth and emotion was one he feared and avoided.

Jean lived the life of a dragon for years.  But Jean is not a dragon.  His heart beats with their wings, his soul yearns for the wind in his hair, and his voice aches to roar alongside them, but he is _not_ a dragon. 

Inevitably.  Unknowingly.  Unavoidably.  Wonderfully.  Graciously.  Irrevocably.  Marco showed him that. 

Marco showed him others things – the goodness of humanity, the human spark, the human love.  Reaffirming his faith in human goodness, in the sparkling life of humanity, of its unrelenting love. 

Marco loves everything around him.  An innocent, pure love for the way the world is and those that share it with him, a love of life and of everyone in his.  Seeing someone who loves in such a beautiful, open, _free_ and so _distinctively human_ way – it had triggered the blossom of those emotions buried for so long, so deep inside of Jean. 

They’d been stunted, yes.  Stunted and shriveled.  And uncertain. 

With one gloved hand, he rubs ferociously at his temples, scowling at the ground. 

One who has lived with a dragon’s heart and soul for so long can’t hope to know love like Marco can.  Jean is all too keenly aware of this. 

Missteps in romance are deadly to relationships.  And Jean doesn’t have much grace for this sort of thing – the reason Jean left Berk in the first place was because of too many missteps. 

There is a small kernel of fear, fueled on his sense of inadequacy, curled in the pit of his belly.  Every time he is alone, the fear swells like a cankering wart. 

And there are so many things to fear. 

Falling too quickly, obsessing, not falling quickly enough, mistaking feelings of friendship for affection.  Hurting Marco.  Marco hurting him.  Not loving Marco right.  Being unable to love Marco.  Being the _other man_ to someone at Berk. 

Jean lifts his head, stomach a knotted mess, and stares across the cavern at the freckled man.  His guts churn with uneasiness, his head spins.  He is _afraid_ , he _afraid_ of losing Marco, of losing this gentle new humanity or of being hurt by it. 

Marco looks up.  The distance between them is too great to see clearly, but Jean already knows those eyes like the back of his hand.  Soft.  Kind.  Marco’s eyes. 

A smile spreads over Marco’s face.  Jean knows how the radiance in that smile melts those lovely eyes.  His love shines through in smiles like these, innocent and beautiful.  Jean’s squeamish gut is instilled with a sudden calm. 

Marco loves him, just as he loves everything else.  Marco – in love?  Perhaps not.  But Jean – in love?  Perhaps not either.  And that is okay. 

Jean doesn’t realize he’s smiling back until his cheeks start to hurt.  But before he can even blush, Marco’s attention is rudely reclaimed.  The baby smacks its head into Marco’s chest, and he reels backwards with a yelp. 

And, as if summoned, a dozen babies appear from nowhere in the foliage Marco, poor sweet Marco, is ambushed on all sides and dragged to the ground.  He roars as he falls, smacking the rock with a yip of pain. 

The dragons swarm him, pulling at his hair and licking his nose.  Marco’s laughter is interspersed with cries of pain and pleas for help.  Orochi looks on with absurd pleasure as Marco goes down at the hands of the babies.  If Jean hadn’t known better, he’d say that seeing his rider defeated by a horde of hatchlings brought the Night Fury glee.  With a smirk, Jean realizes that he is no better, watching from the sidelines as he is. 

Thankfully, the sadistic little dragon is not the only one to hear Marco’s cries. 

Jean’s eyebrows shoot upwards as Eydis launches herself from her perch, thundering a warning growl.  His beloved dragon’s expression curls into a snarl, her crest raised aggressively. 

The babies at first take no notice of the reproach, not caring much about another dragon’s disciplining.  But before long, her furious bellows capture their attention.  Her four wings beat powerfully at the air to keep her aloft, hovering above the scene, her shadow cast down upon them – when she roars, their little bodies shake.    

One by one, they turn their noses up and see the threat now imminent.  One by one, they squeal and scamper into the bushes.  And after the last hatchling flees, Marco bows his head, and Eydis crashes down in front of him. 

Though his head may be bowed, Marco is far from meek.  Eydis puffs a playful breath into Marco’s face, and Jean is astonished to see Marco unfreeze from his position and laugh.  He swipes a mocking punch at Eydis.  She dips back and ducks her head, hissing after his legs. 

Laughing, Marco dances back just quickly enough to keep her chasing him.  And Eydis, growling playfully, does not surge forward with all her strength.  Marco unwittingly smacks into the back wall.  Squeaking, he tries to duck away and escape, but Eydis roars and charges forward. 

She butts her blunt nose against his legs and tosses him up in the air.  With a yip, Marco flies over her head.  His flailing arm snags her frill, and he slams ungracefully down onto her neck.  She snarls and shakes her head to throw him off, but he snarls back through laughter and latches stubbornly on, even as his feet hit the floor beside hers.  That one arm wraps around her thick neck in a pathetic headlock. 

Jean watches, completely taken aback.  His memories fail to provide a time when he and Eydis ever _played_ together like she plays with Marco.  They fail to provide Eydis _playing_ at all. 

And yet there she is.  Roaring and unfurling her wings in mock rage as Marco tries to tackle her to the ground.  Her happy chuffs echo through the chamber. 

Such an overtaking, fulfilling warmth floods every part of his being that Jean nearly keels over.  No facet of Jean’s life has been spared from Marco’s radiance. 

Watching Eydis hook the claw of her upper wing beneath Marco’s hand, lift him up so that he dangles, legs flailing, Jean’s heart fills with the warmth.  Everything now warm.  Cold, forsaken nights and cold hearts, no more. 

Jean of men.  Marco’s Dragon. 

This, he can be. 

Eydis strides gracefully to the edge of the cliff the pair has danced along, holding Marco high in the air.  He howls and kicks his legs, but doesn’t let go of her claw, though Jean knows he could.  Eydis’ mouth splits with – a smile?  Chuckling and copying Marco’s broad grin like a damned Night Fury, she holds her wing out over the edge of the cliff and lets Marco dangle. 

And then Marco really howls. 

Jean chuckles as the one-armed man twists frantically in the air.  Marco is afraid, but in the same stroke, he is not afraid at all.  He trusts Eydis completely. 

The small spike of jealousy is quickly smoothed over by the ecstasy of having the two most important being in his life as fast friends.  Marco has seamlessly become a part of his world – his colorful, vibrant, beautiful world.  Jean’s heart feels peculiarly swollen. 

Beneath Marco, the grand Bewilderbeast stirs.  His tiny eyes crack open, glaring at the noisy little person dangling above him.  Marco wails and begs Eydis for mercy, but she holds him out, still copying his now-faded grin. 

The Bewilderbeast seems to roll its eyes at their antics.  Its lips part, and a small feather of its icy breath shoots up to Marco. 

“ _Oooo hoooooo!_ ” Marco howls as the ice feathers along the back of his trousers, the back of his armor. 

At last, with a confident smirk, Eydis has mercy.  She draws her mighty wings back.  The moment there’s solid ground beneath him, Marco releases her wing.  He hits the stone on his back and rolls exhaustedly away from her. 

Jean chuckles as Eydis prods his heaving chest impatiently.  Moaning, Marco shoves her face away, melodramatically refusing her attention. 

A sudden touch at his hands distracts Jean.  He jumps in surprise and turns to see Orochi. 

The littler dragon nudges at his side with a blunt nose and questioning _whuffs_ of breath.  His green eyes are fixed jealously on Marco and Eydis, but his wings sag sadly by his side, and his ear flaps press against his neck.  There is no fire in his envy. 

Crooning sympathetically, Jean drops to a knee beside the black beast.  For his part, Orochi allows himself to be held and comforted, allows Jean’s hands to massage gently along his broad forehead as he grieves the momentary absence of Marco’s attention.  Jean could be imagining it, but it seems the little bastard trusts him nearly as much as he trusts Marco; after all, Orochi is far from the little devil he’d first seemed to be. 

Perhaps Jean has melted seamlessly into Marco’s life as well.  He smiles as he entertains that thought – the ease of their two lives intertwining. 

Rumbling inquisitively, Orochi butts his nose against Jean’s forehead.  His eyes are huge and glassy enough for Jean to see his reflection.  A ghost of a man looks back at him – pale, long-faced, haggard. 

 _Barbaric_. 

A strong pulse of hurt punches a whole through his chest.  He flinches away from the reflection, hiding his face in his armor, and berates himself for his foolishness. 

There is more to Marco’s life than he knows.  Unlike Jean, Marco had a life beyond Orochi.  Family, friends, pupils.  Jean could not be further from mixing with Marco’s life, as much as the boy’s mixed with his. 

Orochi butts his nose harder against Jean’s forehead this time.  The back of his head smacks against the rocks with a ringing _clunk_.  A stab of hot pain flashes across his skull.  Jean snarls and cups a hand to the tender skin, glaring at Orochi, but the dragon glares back, fiercely unapologetic. 

 _You are thinking too much,_ those eyes seem to scoff.  _Focus on now.  Focus on me._

“You are a jealous bastard,” Jean mutters, stroking Orochi more reluctantly now. 

The dragon huffs and closes his eyes, satisfied.  A second later, he collapses happily to the ground, wings stretching out on either side of him.  With a self-assured gurgle, he rests his head on Jean’s knee.  Somehow, his heavy weight pressed against Jean is reassuring

“You are funny,” Jean chuckles humorlessly.  “Marco.  And you.  It is odd.”

Orochi’s eyes open placidly, innocent but for the irritated twitch of his tail.  _You’re one to talk._

He cannot help but laugh, touched by their similarities.  “True, funny dragon.  Marco is odd, too.  Don’t you think?”

Snorting, Orochi closes his eyes and subtly snuggles closer to his hands.  Jean takes this as an agreement.  Smiling, he runs his hands down Orochi’s soft black neck in lavish massages. 

One difference Jean can’t help but notice between him and Eydis are their scales.  Orochi’s are smaller, glossier.  They are not armor as much as they are skin, built like the rest of him to be light and sleek for the incredible speeds his thin wings carry him.  Not without strength, really, but without excess. 

And, really, anything that can hit him with his absurd speed perhaps deserves to make a dent. 

Eydis is more of a knight – larger scales, certainly much thicker, creating a nearly impenetrable barrier between any outside attacks and her vulnerable organs.  Her many wings and heavy crowns make the dancing of Orochi impossible.  Agile in air, certainly, and a thousand times more graceful than a Gronckle, but stronger and firmer than a Night Fury. 

Marco’s war cry brings Jean’s attention back to his dragon.  On his lap, Orochi peeks an unconcerned eye open as well. 

Eydis cleverly skirts Marco’s playful charges, backing into other dragons who fly off with screeches of protest to avoid her.  When he lunges for her neck, she rears up on her hind legs, higher than he can reach.  He jumps and he jumps, but does not catch her.  Eydis only laughs at his attempts. 

“I think she learned that from you,” Jean says thoughtfully, mentally comparing Orochi’s more grating laugh to her chuffs.  Orochi grunts his agreement. 

“Marco is getting sleepy,” Jean notices aloud.  He says it before he even cognitively is aware of it – the way his Viking’s jumps reach not quite so far, the silly, meaningless flailing of his arm and stump.  Finally, Marco’s arms slump by his sides and his feet settle back onto the stone. 

But the sleep hasn’t quite yet claimed his fight.  Roaring, he charges Eydis’ middle and wraps his arm around her belly, shoving her backwards onto her toes.  She takes a step back, and then another, growling and struggling against him to get her wings back steady on the ground.  But Marco fights to keep her up, keep her on her toes, his legs braced and arm steady. 

Jean admires the magnificent strength in both of them.  Marco, arched spine and quivering muscles, holding back Eydis, whose brilliant four wings sweep futilely at the air for balance. 

_Lovely.  The two of them._

He watches attentively as Marco’s fantastic strength fails.  One moment, he stands strong, arm powerful enough to defy even a Stormcutter.  The next, he’s slumped forward against Eydis with a sleepy moan. 

Jean laughs to himself.  He’s become quite fond of Marco’s peculiar habits – his tendency to push himself until he quite literally _drops_ is one of the cutest.    

Eydis pauses for half a second, staggering to adjust.  Baffled, she gawks down at the boy collapsed against her stomach.  She nudges his head with a claw of her wings and growls a question, head tilting this way and that like an owl. 

Understanding dawns suddenly in her wide eyes, followed immediately by an incredible tenderness. 

Slowly, Eydis drops to the ground.  Marco slides sideways off her belly like deadweight.  One of her wings swoops down to cup his body before he can hit the stone, for he makes no move to catch himself.  Eydis croons softly to Marco, nuzzling the top of his head.  He hums sleepily in reply. 

Her laughter is somehow tenderer than before.  Nudging her nose into his belly, she hooks his arm over one of her crests and growls.  Marco sleepily wraps the horn in his arm and snuggles up against. 

Eydis lifts her head carefully.  Marco goes with her.  He seems utterly unfazed by his feet leaving the ground, by his body dangling limply.  But Eydis protects him.  Her upper wings cautiously spot Marco, prepared to catch him should he fall. 

Tipping her head back so that he droops across her face, Eydis walks to the cavern.  She watches Marco while she goes, the pupils of her eyes wide with adoration.  Jean’s heart hurts, just a little – it’s too adorable for him to handle. 

It’s not only the unadulterated love in her eyes.  It’s the long, careful strides she takes to avoid jarring him, the beeline she makes for the cavern even if it means shooing other dragons away, and the fact that she – _Eydis,_ a dragon who _hates_ anything but _flying_ with a _furious passion_ – is _walking_ him there in the first place. 

He touches his cheeks.  Really, if he keeps smiling so much, they are going to ache all day.  How does Marco do it, he wonders?

Eydis glides past him with only a small, obligatory glance.  As Marco passes, though, he cracks his sleepy eyes open and offers a lopsided smile.  Jean grins in response.  Marco’s groggy affection makes his heart pang.  The moment Jean is out of Marco’s field of view, his head drops back sleepily down. 

And with a flick of her tail fins, his dragon disappears down the mouth of the cavern.

Rumbling, Orochi manages to bring himself up to a stand.  The littler dragon shakes his ear flaps like a dog and blinks his eyes to dispel any illusions of sleep himself.  When Jean doesn’t rise immediately afterwards, he gives him a look of haughty judgment. 

Jean scowls at him.  “Don’t look at me like that.  Fuckin’ lizard.”

Orochi snorts and sticks his nose into the air.  _Get up.  Fuckin’ human._

Jean gets up by his own accord, not because of any bratty dragon’s scorn, and pads quietly after Eydis.  Orochi bounds past him in the hallway with a sudden joy, his wing smacking the side of Jean’s face in his haste.  He prances alongside Eydis, nuzzling Marco’s hanging legs.  Marco grunts, and Orochi bounces with glee. 

When the party of dragons reach the chamber, Orochi bursts excitedly forward.  To Jean’s dismay, he prances through the pillows set in the center of the room and smacks the cauldron over with his tail.   Though its empty belly spills nothing across the floor, Jean hisses reflexively. 

With a quick glance to Jean, Eydis growls warningly to the excited dragon.  Even Marco musters a weak little mumble of disapproval – Orochi skips excitedly to his side and nudges his Viking in response.  His pink tongue lolls happily from his mouth. 

Huffing, Eydis pushes him away with the back of one wing.  Her head bows over the bed, lowering Marco down as tenderly as a mother with her child.  His body limply collects on the mattress until good old Eydis holds his weight no longer. 

Marco snuggles closer to her, moaning as Jean’s dragon tries to leave.  His face nestles between the crook of her horns, arm fitting perfectly through the grooves of her crest.  But even as he hugs her, he lapses on the edges of sleep.  With each heavy blink of his eyes, he sags against her a bit more. 

Eydis tips him over slowly onto his back, ever gentle.  She takes Marco back and back until his sleepy arm simply falls off and his body crashes to the bed.  Already, Jean hears the vestiges of a soft snore. 

The innocence of his loving little Viking is something to behold. 

Jean basks in the warmth even Marco’s sleeping presence exudes as he approaches, smiling without fear of discovery.  He is dimly aware that _perhaps_ , this might not be normal – people might not like to be spied upon while they slumber. 

But this is Marco.  Marco understands, Marco… loves.  He is not afraid of Marco. 

Marco’s limbs are clumsily splayed over the bed like a puppet with cut strings.  Somehow, he’d managed to fall asleep with full armor on.  Jean is touched by knowing his armor fits Marco so perfectly.  The pillow sits beneath Marco’s back, arching it uncomfortably.  His mouth hangs open, and his broad chest rises and falls with each peaceful snore. 

Purring, Eydis butts her nose against the side of Jean’s head.  He tears his gaze away from the Viking and looks up into her yellow eyes.  They are still soft, molten from the warmth of the personal sun in Marco’s chest, the radiance in his every laugh and smile. 

 _He is good_ , her eyes murmur like waves lapping against unyielding rock.  _I accept him._

And so Marco has become a part of Jean’s life. 

Of his no longer stagnant life, of a life now subject to change, a life with all the potential for heartbreak and ecstasy and terror and joy as any other.  Jean has the distant feeling of a book closing in that moment, of a chapter ending.  The dream has ended.  He is dragon no more.  By no accord of his own, he has been dragged back into the world of man. 

In this moment – for this briefest of seconds, looking down upon the innocent sleeping figure of the one person Jean feels he could learn to love – he is content with those implications. 

But storms brew on the horizon.  Peace breeds only the potential for conflict.  Nothing in his life is static as it was before. 

Struck with an old ache of fear he hasn’t known since the bleak Isle of Berk, Jean feels called to twist around and stare into the blank eyes of his helmet, sat on the nightstand. 

Things are changing.  The tides shift around him. 

Hesitantly, Jean tucks the helmet beneath his arm.  He casts a bittersweet glance to sleeping Marco, and his heart twinges with warmth.  Orochi’s clever green eyes never leave him.  Coiled around the foot of his Viking’s bed, he watches Jean’s every move. 

Perhaps the lizard recognizes the change too.  Perhaps he is wary.  Should their positions be switched, Jean would feel wary.  Protective.  Possessive, even.

Filled with the circles of unanswered questions and the strange warmth that has changed his entire being, filled with hopes and dreams and fears and a bone-deep desire to curl up beside Marco, Jean turns away and clucks his tongue for Eydis to follow.  Without knowing why, he leaves Marco and the Night Fury in peace, and walks out into the cavern to face the coming storm.

* * *

 

Eren knows instinctively that, when Armin asks him to pull up beside Ymir’s dragon, whatever they’re going to talk about isn’t for him to hear. 

And so he does his best to ignore them, at first.  It’s none of his business and it’s rude to eavesdrop. 

But Ymir is loud. 

 _Very_ loud. 

And she doesn’t seem to have the slightest issue with anyone in the group overhearing, so he figures – hell, what’s the damage. 

Not that there’d be many people close enough to interfere.  Mikasa and Sindri drift far overhead, and the chucklefucks are too immersed in a pleasant chat to give a shit – Connie sits behind Sasha on one of the Zippleback’s heads, braiding her hair elaborately while they chitter like birds.  Eren is the only one close enough to catch a word from the conversation over the wind. 

The thing is, he knows a little bit more about Ymir’s story than most.  Certainly more than Armin.  He knows about how after her mother’s death, her father called her for summer apprenticeships in the dangerous mainland, the City of Steel.  He knows that she, so besotted by Aurolian, begged to stay full-time in the City after her father’s passing.  He knows that the great City of Steel was far less kind to the fifteen-year-old girl, all alone and naïve. 

He’s heard whispers between walls, between widows, places where no one thinks they could be overheard.  Of terrible things.  Ymir the Ravager, feared all throughout the fine City of Steel – and with good reason.

It’s sad, that she can’t really escape that legacy.  Eren knows she’s tried, knows she’s trying.  But as terrible as it is, he doesn’t think they would’ve found Krista without her bloody past. 

 _Is any of this going to get Berk in trouble?_   Armin’s been whispering.  _How long have you had this sway?  Can we use this any more?_

And, unsaid in his wary tone: _How dangerous are you?_

Eren knows the answer is very, very dangerous. 

But not to Armin, not to him, nor to Krista or to Berk.  Ymir would never hurt them.  He cannot extend the same promise to Marco’s kidnappers. 

Ymir answers his questions.  Sometimes cryptically, when Armin pries into dark wounds, but mostly with a flippant grin and a gravelly chuckle. 

“Aye, blondie, don’t worry none about the people o’ ‘at fuckin’ trader’s den,” she guffaws.  “None of ‘em are tough enough to take ol’ Fucknut on.”

“Are you sure?” Armin presses anxiously.  “Ymir, we’ve gotten so far…”

“I’m serious, do ya think I’d do somethin’ tah put my Marco in danger?”  She shakes her head.  “I only saw one major player o’ the games, ‘nd it was in the last five fuckin’ seconds on that goddamn port.  Nothin’ to fear, looked bedraggled as fuck.”

“What if Krista hires someone to hunt you down?”

“She won’t, if she knows what’s good for her,” Ymir laughs.  “Girlie’s smart.  Hell, she might show up at Berk ‘nd ask for a full-time deal.”

Eren hears a half-spoken question of Armin’s behind him, and Ymir’s scornful growl. 

“Ya’re worrying too much, blondie,” she warns in a low tone of voice.  “What if, what if, ya sound like a fuckin’ gull, crowin’ the same things over ‘nd over again.  We’re in the home stretch, boy.  Eyes forward.”

Armin squirms nervously – Eren can almost feel it.  “How can you be sure?”

“Well, ya’ve got the dragons,” Ymir says, and just as she does, another flock of miscellaneous creatures appears in the clouds in the distance.  “Those don’ often fly together, do they, gnome?  We’ve been going the way she told us, and we’re seeing odd things.  Trust me, boy – we’re close.”

Perhaps the gods bestowed Ymir with foresight in exchange for her woes, perhaps they gave her the gift of prophecy, because half a second later, Connie and Sasha start whooping and hollering. 

Eren twists around in his seat to see them standing up in the saddle, screaming with joy.  Connie keeps a half-finished braid in his hand while he bellows and shakes his other fist, and Sasha lunges forward with exaggerated, two-hand pointing.  Half of their faces are consumed by beatific grins.    

“Oh, my gods,” Armin whispers behind him. 

Eren squints his eyes towards the direction of their wild pointing.  The sun gleams off the water so brightly that it’s hard to look at straight on – even with cloud cover, the sunlight is brutal to the naked eye.  And yet, even with the glare, it’s unmistakable what’s gotten them so excited. 

Frozen spikes kiss the horizon in long, splintered pillars, massive in size and resting on the water like an icy flower, dragons flying by the hundreds overhead of the cold spires. 

“Holy shit,” Eren breathes. 

“That’s – what the hell is that?!” Armin yelps.  “It _looks_ like – but it couldn’t be!  What _is_ that?”

“That, little gnome,” Ymir chuckles, spurring Fucknut faster with a massive grin on her face, “is where we’re going to find our boy Marco."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took me a little longer than usual, I'm sorry, I've got all sorts of exams...
> 
> Also poor Marco... He got one arm...
> 
> Next chapter isn't going to be long, but it's going to be huge for the plot, so I can't promise being real speedy with putting it out here; especially since I still have testing. Please, write me a comment, I love hearing from all of you!
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Terrible Terror](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Terrible_Terror)  
> -[Seashockers](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Seashocker)  
> -[Boneknapper](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Boneknapper)  
> 


	12. Should I Know You?

The fortress of ice is alien and strange.  Its long spikes bristle upwards like regal turrets, glistening and gleaming gold.  As the sun sinks lower and lower in its western throne, dragons of all types stream in from all directions.  Their colors are like the splatters of paint over the green-tinted ice. 

Swooping closer to the structure gives Eren nothing but more questions.  It looks like a _shell_ , almost, and he’d bet his right arm there’s _something_ inside, something important, something worthy of the icy palace.  What exactly that is – well, they’ll find out. 

“We need to get inside!” Connie yells over the ruckus. 

“The dragons are getting in somehow,” Mikasa shouts back.  “Let’s follow them to see where.”

“Weapons ready!” Ymir bellows, unlatching her own battleaxe from its sheathe. 

Grimly, Eren adjusts his own sword on his hip with one hand, pulling it in and out a few times to check that it slides easily from its scabbard.  His fingers move slowly, numb from the cold air – his stomach pangs with worry.  Eren needs to be ready for battle, ready for anything; at best, they’ll have to fight off some dragons.  At worst, ambush awaits them inside – and he needs to protect his friends. 

“Armin, tighten my armor,” he calls behind him.  The other boy’s quivering fingers pull immediately at the buckles, slack from hours of flight.  It feels pleasant, Armin’s hands on his sides, but Eren can’t afford to get sidetracked.  Narrowing his eyes, he braces his hands on Titan’s horns and leans forward, searching the surface of the den. 

The sky is thick with dragons.  They screech and dart around Titan like flocks of nasty buzzards, hindering the flaps of his great wings.  Eren’s heart hammers at their malicious snarls, aggressive herding flight patterns.  Somehow, the dragons know they’re outcasts.  And apparently, these dragons aren’t too keen on strangers. 

In the corner of his eye, Eren sees movement.  He only has the time to snarl a warning before he grabs Armin by the scruff of his neck and shoves him down, ducking behind Titan’s horns in the same movement. 

Rancid dragon breath blows hot in his face.  A pair of gleaming talons snaps down on nothing just above his ear a second later.  As its tail whistles past, the bony tip smacks down against his cheek and snaps his head back. 

Eren grunts and flattens himself back against Titan, turning around to watch the dragon fly off.  The offending Thornridge turns to hiss nastily, eyes bulging with hate, and disappears quickly. 

Adrenaline pounds thick through his veins.  The dragon will come again, and even if it doesn’t, there are others to follow its lead.  He studies the flocks around them suspiciously, but they seem no more violent than before. 

Armin’s head tucks frightenedly against his thigh, soft, nervous breaths coming out in gentle gasps.  One of the boy’s arms is cupping his face protectively, and the other is linked around Eren’s torso.  Setting one gauntlet overtop Armin’s head to protect and console him, Eren sits up slowly. 

His heart hammers in his chest as he searches the skies for another threat.  The blow across his cheekbone stings hotly, and his neck throbs with a dull ache every time he turns his head.  He winces in pain.  _Damn.  They’re vicious._    With one hand, he unhooks his helmet from the packs and fixes it over his forehead to guard against future attacks. 

“Stay low,” he instructs gravely to terrified little Armin.  The boy nods, eyes flooding momentarily with tears. 

“Watch the skies!” Eren bellows to his companions.  “Some of the damn things are hostile!”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the air became abruptly and powerfully charged.  Sindri hisses viciously above him.  Eren flattens against Titan’s back, craning his head upwards – he hears conflict between two dragons, growling and roaring, and then a final-sounding _zap._   Armin gasps, holding Eren tighter. 

A dragon falls through the air beside them.  Eren leans over to watch it fall – halfway down, the beast wakes up with a dazed squawk.  With slow, confused flaps, it wanders harmlessly off. 

“You alright, Mikasa?!” Connie yells. 

“Don’t worry about me!” she says.  “I’ll cover you – find some way to get in!”

Eren shouts an agreement, urging Titan forward with his heels.  He soars low over the spikes of ice, but he can’t make out a pattern.  At least here, the pestering dragons have lessened – they cannot so easily follow between the columns of ice. 

“See anything?!” Ymir roars from somewhere above him. 

After a questioning glance down to Armin, who shakes his head minutely, Eren shrugs.  “Nothing yet!  You?!”

“Aye, same!”  A moment later, there is a solid smack of iron on bone.  Eren squints up at the sky to see a Gronckle flying sloppily away from Ymir. 

“Damn dragons are fuckin’ nuts!” she shouts, shaking her battleaxe.  “What the fuck did I do tah ya, eh?!  Fuckin’ nothin’, ‘at’s what!”

The dragons don’t care.  They are intruders on their world, vermin attempting to infiltrate this grand fortress.  They have every bit as much of a right to slice Eren and all of his friends to pieces as a sparrow protecting its nest; and they do not relent.  Another one furiously flings itself against Ymir, and she shoves it off Fucknut with an angry roar. 

“THERE!”

Eren spins around in the saddle to face the direction of Sasha’s excited shout.

“There, there, there!” she yells.  “A cave!  A tunnel!  Some shit!”

And there it is – small and barely distinguishable, a crack between two juts of ice that dragons squeeze between and disappear.  Nothing majestic, nothing worthy of this brilliant icy nest. 

Eren bellows triumphantly, brandishing his sword forward.  A fresh burst of adrenaline fills his veins, and he spurs Titan forward into a brazen headlong dive. 

The savage winds hiss around Titan, around Eren, like so many icy hands trying to wrench him off his dragon’s back.  His hand knots tighter in Armin’s hair.  As Titan’s wings tuck by his sides, Eren rests his forehead against the dragon’s neck. 

They shoot through the crack at the speed of a falling star – the ground comes too quickly, too unforgivingly.  Eren recognizes it at the last second, yanking Titan’s head up desperately. 

Titan’s wings slam out at the last second, sending a shock through his body.  Eren jolts so violently in his seat he bites his tongue – Armin yelps and clutches him tighter. 

His wings do little to cushion his impact – Titan crashes against the ground like a falling stone. 

The moment they hit, Eren launches off of his dragon, dragging Armin with him.  Titan’s legs quiver at the knees, his breath comes out in ragged, smoking pants through his flaring nostrils.  The hardy dragon tries to take a step forward and fails, knee buckling.  He sags to the ground, defeated.    

“Hey, hey, hey,” Eren says, hushed.  Dropping down beside Titan, he takes the dragon’s head and pillows it in his lap, running a hand along his nose to calm him. 

“He must be exhausted,” Armin says anxiously, hovering over Eren’s shoulder. 

“Poor Titan,” Eren coos, rubbing the hot scales of his muzzle gently.  “You’ve done so good.  I’m so proud of you, you strong old motherfucker, you hear?”

Titan’s eyes flutter in bliss, filled with an exhausted contentment.  Eren pecks the quickest of kisses to Titan’s forehead.  The dragon purrs happily, but he pulls his head free of Eren’s arms with a chastising glare. A hollow laugh forces its way through his brittle, nervous chest – good old Titan. 

The warmth of laughter hardens as he turns to their surroundings – instinctively, he moves into a more defensive stance in front of Armin.  Gloomy, tinted light filters in through the pillars of ice.  The air is cold, cold and stale as a cellar, and every noise echoes down a long, dim tunnel that glows like a palace hall.  If his bearings are correct, it leads to the heart of the strange structure. 

The others drop down from the sky beside them, each with their varying levels of grace.  Mikasa strides to Eren’s side, Ymir fusses with her dragon’s straps for supplies.  Linnie and Chusi, the only dragons awake, are on edge.  Fucknut is too stupid, Titan is too exhausted, and Sindri too aloof to care. Their necks twine together, and Linnie belches some of her noxious gas nervously.  Sasha, hair still half-braided, tries to calm the dragons while Connie jogs up to the mouth of the tunnel. 

“Whadaya see, baldie?” Ymir barks over her shoulder. 

“Nothin’, really!” he calls, inspecting the tunnel.  “Not much to it.  It’ll be a tight squeeze, I think, but I think this is the only way to go without wings, though.”

“Anything in there?” Eren asks, frowning. 

“Not that I can see from here.  There’s a sharp little incline – I think someone will have to help Armin up it – and it’s blocking my view of the rest of it.” 

“Right!”  Eren glances at Armin.  “Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

His gaze shyly falls from Eren’s.  “T-thanks.”

“Alright, ya pink-cheeked maidens, let’s get a move on!” Ymir snarls, swinging her axe over her head. 

Marco’s hatchet swings at her hip, and she rubs its hilt like a quiet plea.  But Ymir has never been the superstitious type – she takes no longer than that to follow in Connie’s footsteps. 

“I’ll take rear guard,” Mikasa says quietly.  “The rest of the dragons will take care of Titan.” 

Eren nods grimly.  He parts with a final caress along Titan’s weary muzzle – the dragon’s puff of hot air against his leg, a farewell of sorts, instills in him a calm strength.  The sword at his back seems lighter, the armor protecting his chest less constricting.  Squaring his shoulders, he tails after Ymir, Armin by his side. 

The narrow tunnel proves irritating to travel.  The stones, grey and shaped like steps, form strange structures and cause the path to twist and turn.  Despite the quiet of the tunnel, Connie sneaks up to each and every corner, checking meticulously that there are no ambushers hidden in the cracks of the rocks. 

Not only does the path curve, it also is far from flat.  The longer they continue, the more skeptical Eren is that it’s even a path – sometimes it’s low, sometimes its high, sometimes the ceiling is so far above him he can’t even see it, sometimes they’ve got to shimmy on their stomachs to get through.  Foul-smelling water trickles between Eren’s armor when he brushes up against the low cave walls or clambers over an odd, sudden incline. 

The sounds of their passage echo eerily through the empty caverns.  Shadows move in the corners of his eyes, and the back of his neck prickles with the eerie feeling of being watched.  No one speaks unless they have to – a pall of nervousness seals over the party. 

When Eren begins to doubt he can take the silence much longer, Connie’s jubilant shout echoes back down through the tunnel. 

“There!  There it is!  I see an exit!”

Eren’s heart bolsters in his chest.  A fresh wave of energy tingles through him – standing on the tips of his toes, he tries to see over Ymir, a grin spreading over his face. 

“No shit?!” Ymir shouts, sounding excited. 

“What the fuck are you waiting for?!” Sasha bellows at Connie, bouncing over Eren’s shoulder.  “Run, run like a motherfucker!” 

She throws herself against the tunnel wall and shimmies past Eren, bumping him as she goes, giggling like a maniac.  Connie grins from ear to ear.  He sprints forward, tripping, and disappears around the bend with Sasha on his heels.  Eren’s hand clutches Armin’s – he squeezes him tight and spares the other boy an excited smile. 

Armin’s eyes are shining.  There’s smelly cave water in his hair and dirt smudged across one cheek, but still, effortlessly, he steals Eren’s breath.  Heart hammering a bit harder in his chest, Eren pulls him gently towards the exit.  Hand-in-hand, they walk into the brightness at the end of the tunnel. 

Blinking in the abrupt, cruel light, Eren puts up a hand to shield his eyes.  His jaw drops in astonishment – _what the hell…?  What is this?!_

“Holy shit,” Connie mumbles beside him. 

“No fucking kidding,” Ymir says.

Before them is a monstrous cavern, bigger than any he’s ever seen.  Its sides are carved from blue ice, but emerald green plants take hold of the dirt between the magnificent grey stones lining the basin.  Dragons flit from perch to perch along the ledges of the uneven walls, more colors and species that he’s seen cohabitate before.  They watch the group suspicious, but even the danger they pose pales in comparison to the behemoth in the belly of the cavern. 

“Fuck!” Eren explodes, his mouth falling open.  Armin’s hands clench in his tunic, startled more by his outburst than the monster mere meters from them. 

“Oh, my,” Mikasa says mildly. 

“The hell is that, blondie?” Ymir growls nervously, coming back to life.  She braces her battleaxe in both hands as if it may protect her, wringing the hilt with both hands. 

“It’s huge,” Sasha whimpers, her knees bending. 

“We can’t fight that,” Connie breathes. 

“Grenades got nothing on – on being a _fucking giant._ ”

“There’s no way – there’s no way!” Armin says in absolute disbelief, blinking owlishly at the monstrosity dozing in the middle of the cavern.  “They’re supposed to all be _extinct_ – hunted out years and years ago, for their tusks –”

“People used to _hunt_ that?” Eren says incredulously, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.  “ _How?_ ”

“With lots of casualties,” Armin whispers.  He shakes his head slowly, face pale and stricken. 

“The fuck is it?!” Ymir demands, narrowing her eyes at the creature as if debating challenging it to a duel. 

“A grand Bewilderbeast.”  Armin’s voice quivers.  “King of the Dragons.  Emperor of the North.” 

As if it’d head Armin, the Bewilderbeast lifts its head from the water and gazes upon them with ancient, knowing eyes, blue as the ice around it.  Water cascades by the ton off its tusks.  Eren feels naked beneath the scrutiny of those old, old eyes, as if they see right through him and at his very soul.  A shiver trembles down his spine.  He takes a nervous step back, hand going to the hilt of his sword. 

A warning growl thunders through the air as his hand wraps around the handle.  Eren jumps away from the sound, yanking his sword from his scabbard.  He whirls around, swinging it in a wide, protective arc around Armin as he does. 

His gaze is caught by a beast crouched atop the stones.  Its silver scales wink with every move, its crest splashed with colors.  The crest shadows its eyes – they gleam with the barest hint of yellow.  As it growls, plates on its nose rattle together threateningly, and its crest bristles like a Nadder raising its spines. 

Looking up at the quiet hunter, a strange sense of recognition washes over him.  Suspiciously, he levels his sword and pulls Armin behind him. 

“Whoa,” Connie gasps, staggering away from the dragon.  “Whoa, fuck, did anyone hear that thing getting close?”

“It mighta been there the whole time,” Ymir speculates grimly, shrugging.  “O’ it mighta snuck up.  I dunno.”

“I’ve never seen a dragon like that,” Armin whispers, a bit in awe.  “Not in drawings, not in reading – nothing.”

Sasha shifts from foot to foot, watching the creature apprehensively.  “What does it want?!  It’s got to want something!”

“It’s staring at you, Eren,” Mikasa notes. 

And so it is – its hateful yellow eyes seem only for him.  Without a single noise, it pushes off the wall and creeps down the stone, a long tail swishing behind it.  As it moves downwards, extending itself in slow, elegant motions, it hits Eren, where he’s seen this creature before.  His heart turns to ice in his chest. 

“It’s got four wings,” Armin gasps, delighted.  “I’ve never seen a dragon like that, maybe –“

But he can’t finish, Eren pushes him back protectively, jumping in front of them all.  A numb sort of horror goosebumps across his skin, icy cold and bitter.  But a long-dormant rage rouses within him – he feels it rearing its ugly head in his chest.  Already, its poison songs of revenge pour into his blood. 

“All of you, stay back,” Eren snarls, steadying his hands on his sword.  “That fucker’s a maneater.”

Eyes locking on his brandished sword, the dragon snarls.  It rattles furiously, locking its gaze back on Eren.  Hate burns in its eyes as fiercely as the hate in his heart. 

The corners of Eren’s vision tinge red with fury.  A terrible war cry tears gutturally from his chest, a defiant bellow for the Gods themselves to hear – around him, Ymir and Connie echo his cries, and Sasha beats her dagger on her armor.  The reveling of long-dead sweeps through his chest, crying out for vengeance so long denied to them. 

Surrounded by friends of battle, watched by the glory of the Gods themselves, Eren can almost feel the friend lost to him.  _I will bring you vengeance,_ he swears. 

Bracing the hilt of his sword in two hands, Eren charges.  Headlong, furious, foolish.  He pours all his power into the charge, his feet slamming across the stone, his sword singing wickedly in his hands.  He hurls his weight into a vicious swing of his blade towards the dragon’s chest, and –

His sword hisses through empty air. 

The monster rears backwards, four wings exploding outwards for balance.  Eren stumbles clumsily.  His neck pulls painfully from the embarrassing stagger.  Wincing, Eren regathers himself and turns on the dragon again. 

It had been an amateur mistake, fueled by the adrenaline high of the fight and the temptation of blood long-denied.  He will not make the same blunder again. 

Eren acts quickly lest is escape him again.  His blood pulses hot and furious. 

In its haste to move from his sword’s path, the dragon had acted stupidly.  Its wings arch over its head like powerful halos, spread to balance it.  But its ivory breast, sheathed only by soft scales so easily cleaved by steel, lies exposed and level with his sword. 

 _Gods above, behold me,_ Eren implores, poising the blade in both hands above the beast’s heart.  The furious hammering of his heart reaches a glorious climax, and the dragon’s eyes widen. 

With every fiber of strength in his body, he plunges his sword downward.  It slices mercilessly through the air.  Eren knows from the moment he first thrusts it forward that it is a killing blow, knows it in his heart, knows it in the wild screaming of his blood and the red tinge of his eyesight. 

But it does not cleave through yielding flesh. 

It _smashes_. 

Eren staggers, gasping.  He blinks in surprise, tugs at his sword.  The blade is buried deep in wood. 

Something kicks his legs out from under him.  His shoulder smashes _hard_ against the stone, sending bolts of pain through his arm.  His vision blurs.  Gasping for breath, Eren clutches feebly at the hilt of his sword like an anchor to something other than pain. 

He squints blearily up at what had stood between him and glory of vengeance, confused.  Nothing he sees makes sense – _horns?  Horns and a painted shield?_

“Fucker!” Ymir bellows from somewhere.  “I’ll scalp you for that, motherfucker!”

Baffled, Eren squints up at the intruder again.  It’s a man – a man in painted armor.  His fiery rage returns in a dizzying wave.  A snarl tears so gutturally in his throat, it burns.  He pushes himself back to his feet, itching to slice the intruder down. 

No one stands between Eren and blood that is his to be spilled. 

The other does not wait long.  They swing the shield heavily towards Eren’s head – he just barely manages to block it with his sword.  The force of the blow still sends a shiver through his body.  Their strength does not falter, and they shove against Eren’s block, shoving his sword backwards into his face.  Trembling, he holds it back, glaring down the shield into the blank eyes. 

 _He does not show his face._ Eren curls his lip at the mask.  _Coward._

The man rips his shield back suddenly and twirls around instantly with a staff in hand.  Unprepared, Eren staggers.  In the time it takes him to regain his balance, they land three blunt blows along his torso.  The staff rattles as it twists in the air around the man’s head like the dragon. 

_The dragon._

Eren dances backwards from the rain of blows just long enough to see that it’d disappeared.  He burns with frustration – to see a ghost of his past, to have it ripped from him, is bitterly unsatisfying. 

“Kick his ass!” Sasha snarls. 

“Say the word and we’re by your side!” Connie adds, and Sasha agrees with a warrior’s whoop. 

But Eren will finish this man honorably.  He levels his blade, and with a rattle, his opponent readies his staff.  And they smash together again. 

They’re good.  _Very_ good.  The fight is a match of blocks and blows and furious contact – they fight desperately and ferociously, like a man who has nothing to fear or hold back.  Their blows land in quick succession, smattering up his torso, down his legs, on his arms, and they twirl that way and this like a goddamned fairy. 

But Eren’s good too. 

 _Smack, smack, slash, smack_ – he furiously cuts down blow after blow of his opponents and smashes the flat of his blade against their armor.  It must be thick, for they show little sign of damage, but Eren cuts deeper with each strike.  He slams the pommel of his sword into their shoulder with bone-crushing force and hears them curse. 

_Not long now._

Their staff flies up to smack him between the legs.  Before it reaches its target, Eren catches the staff with his blade and smashes it to the floor.  The hollow tip shatters upon impact.  Dozens of beans scatter across the stone, spinning off in every direction. 

Eren watches them, grinning triumphantly, for a moment too long. 

The blow comes fast and hard.  The shield collides with the side of his head, the rim hooking beneath his helmet and ripping it off in the opposite direction.  It hits the side of the wall with an echoing smack. 

Eren’s neck explodes with pain.  He gasps, staggering backwards, and nearly drops his sword with the agony of it.  Vision blurry, Eren groans and blinks blearily up at his attacker. 

“Eren!” Armin cries. 

Every furious muscle in his body does not wish to dishonor his attacker by calling in reinforcements.  He curses softly, bowing his head and squeezing his eyes shut.  His muscles ache and tremble, quivering from the strain of holding himself upwards. 

Another blow and he might give out.   But he must finish the fight no matter what.  So Eren swallows down his pain and squares up with his opponent again. 

No bludgeoning blows rain like hail down upon him.  After a moment, it’s clear none will.  Eren squints up at them, curling his lip – and they gasp and take a small step backwards.  

“ _Eren?_ ” breathes the voice – it’s soft, unfamiliar, but unmistakably his name. 

His opponent hesitates, the empty eyes of the mask staring dully back at him.  They shake their head, slowly, as if that might make the reality untrue.  Quiet, panicked gasps reach Eren’s ears, muffled by the helmet.  Both their staff and shield clatter to the ground by their feet. 

“Tear his balls off!” Ymir howls unhelpfully behind him.  But something is _wrong._

“Should I know you?” Eren demands fiercely, levelling his sword even to the other’s chest.  Because something is off, something is not right.  Villains do not act like this. 

They stutter a word he can’t quite catch, but then launch into a quiet mantra of only one word: _No._

Throwing their hands in front of their face, they back away from him. 

Slowly at first – hesitant, unbelieving steps. 

Then faster. 

Staggering over the stones, hunching their spine, knees buckling, they stagger away from him.  Tripping over their cloak, they viciously shake their head.  Their back hits the stone, but they press themselves bodily against it.  He hears their panicked gasps from inside the helmet, interspersed with quiet _no_ ’s and _it can’t be_ ’s. 

“What the hell?” Sasha wonders, creeping up curiously beside Eren. 

They take one look at her, hair half-braided and weapons sheathed, whimper, turn tail, and _run_. 

Eren’s heart turns to stone in his chest.  His lip curls and every song of revenge reaches a sharp crescendo in his heart.  Cold fury engulfs him, cooling the ache of his muscles and focusing his scattered mind. 

Many things run.  The wounded run, but the man was not wounded.  The weak, but he was not weak.  Those with flimsy hearts, those with bloody hands, those with something to hide.  Cowards, criminals, liars.  _Prey_.  Prey runs. 

No guiltless man flees.  It is a simple truth. 

And so Eren turns to his group of hesitating, mismatched Vikings and lifts his weapon over his head with a bloodcurdling roar.  Ymir echoes it immediately, and one by one, the other’s eyes harden as they reach the same realization.  Even sweet Armin answers his shout – Eren’s heart feels suddenly swollen in his chest, thumping hard against his ribcage. 

His friends’ cheers thrumming in his ears, Eren turns on heel and bolts after the strange man. 

The man jumps from stone to stone, along a poorly marked path.  He scrabbles up rocks with the quickness of a squirrel, leaps across cliffs with practiced ease, and runs hard and fast through thick foliage.  He knows his surroundings like the back of his hand – Eren can see it in those long, confident steps.  It’s a significant homefield advantage. 

Eren struggles to keep up, every one of his steps jarring his neck and sending a stab of pain down his spine.  He pushes back the pain, clawing up the rocks and flinging himself across cliffs, hobbling through foliage and tripping over dragon tails. 

At one point, Eren staggers to the top of a rock the man had just leaped off of.  The man whirls around, panicked, to look at him, and his anger flares. 

“You’re a dead man, you hear me?!” Eren snarls, toeing at the edge of the rock, preparing to jump.  “Fuckin’ dead!  I’m going to kill you!”

They make a squeaking noise and sprint off, even faster than before. 

Eren follows, hot at his heels.  They’re faster, lighter, and know what the hell they’re doing, but Eren is tenacious.  Every wound he smacks against stone and every bruised toe he smashes against the unforgiving earth gives him another burst of energy to _just keep running_.  Though the distance between them slowly grows as the man sprints ahead, Eren never is far behind. 

The man throws himself up a hill so powerfully that they skid to a halt on top of it.  At first, Eren thinks it’s to regain control from his abandoned sprint – but then, something atop the hill stirs and lifts its head.  A pair of green eyes blinks curiously at the man.  Black as sin and sleek as a jaguar, a dragon jumps to its feet beside him.  It croaks, nudges the man’s hand.  Sensing his stress, it bristles. 

Menacingly, the dragon turns viciously towards Eren, hissing angrily at the intruder. 

And that’s a good enough incentive for Eren to come to a screeching halt.  Moments later, bolt of fire hits the ground in front of his feet with a bright flash.  The foliage around it bursts into flame.  Eren yelps and staggers backwards. 

Ymir smacks into his back, jolting his injured muscles painfully. 

Staggering, she snarls, “Aaaa, what the hell, ya fuckin’ –“

And then she sees it. 

“The fuck?”  The confusion is thick in her voice. 

“Orochi?” Eren gasps, dumbfounded. 

The Night Fury snarls as if it doesn’t recognize him, back arching.  The threat of another bolt of fire blazes in his maw.  And behind the curl of its sleek black tail and raised wings, the strange man ducks down a tiny tunnel, little more than a crack in the wall. 

 _He’s escaping_ , Eren realizes.  He takes a step forward, and the dragon snarls, mouth glowing intimidatingly.  Hastily, he scampers back, fearful of its fire. 

“We can’t let that fucker get away,” Ymir growls.  She casts a sideways glance to Eren, and they exchange a brief, knowing look.  Every moment they waste allows the man to run further, the man who is now their only lead.  Nodding, Ymir sidesteps and smacks her hand against the broad of her blade just as the rest of the gang catches up with them. 

“Look at me, ya ungrateful reptile!” she hollers, waving her axe around.  “Fuckin’ bastard, ya are!  Forgot all about me already?!  Ungrateful fucker!”

And the Night Fury turns his attention towards her, nose wrinkling with his snarl.  Desperation gives him a last burst of energy – Eren scales the hill clumsily but quickly, slamming his knees into the unrelenting stone as he claws at the rough handholds.  He stumbles to his feet, level with the dragon.  It whips its head around like a snake, and snarls viciously. 

Eren’s heart skips a beat.  He sees the fire burn brightly in the dragon’s maw, and he does not waste time.  Diving into the tunnel, he drops his sword wraps his arms around his head. 

He feels the bolt collide with the earth, feels the heat in the air roll in waves against his heels, but he doesn’t dare turn.  Lunging for his sword, Eren pushes himself onto his feet.  From beyond the mouth of the cavern, he hears the dragon spit with rage.  Shaking his head, Eren gathers himself and sprints down the tunnel after the fleeing man.

* * *

 

No. 

No, no, no.

No, no, no no _no no no nonono –_

Voice a growl, thicker, deeper with years, but still _his_.  Quivering in pain, face a grimace, tousled, sweaty hair, lean shoulders.  Scars.  Time’s marks.  Snarling, sinking back into a stance for battle, ferocious, anticipating –

Long lashes part.  Jean’s breath punches from his lungs with a wound more painful than any landed. 

Furious eyes.  Fire burns in them, hot and deep, bright.  Their color.  Glades in summer, exotic stones, delicate lichen perched on grey stones, sun through tree leaves. 

_Jean knows that color._

“ _Eren?_ ”

His own voice, not sounding like his own.  Weak.  Frail.  Shattering world, a thousand pieces crashing down around him.  Eyes blink in surprise, confusion, caution – Eren.  Eren, Eren, he cannot be Eren, this cannot be –

_Eren._

Breath too loud, echoing in his helmet, hot, trapped, wet sweat at his temples.  Staff, shield, spill from his hands, clatter against the stone, _do not fight me, I do not want to fight –_

Someone speaks, jeers, voice rough and angry, but Jean does not look away – he cannot look away, hypnotized by those eyes.  Cautious, confused.  Emerald. 

“Who are you?” 

_He doesn’t recognize Jean._

Cold fear, clawing grasping confining fear, filling his throat.  Rears its ugly head, panic, hot panic, numbing his brain, sluggish – back, back, backwards movement, tripping feet.  Shaking – shaking?  _Shaking_ , he’s shaking, his lips brush against leather, is he speaking?  He cannot hear, he cannot _feel_ , he is detached and he is panicked and he is _very, very certain of one thing._

Berk.  Berk has come for him. 

He is not ready, he is not _ready_.  Not yet, not yet, they need to leave, they need to _go,_ _wake up, let this be a dream, they cannot be here –_

His back hits something solid. 

Stone. 

Cold stone. 

Firm, against his back, unmoving, unfaltering.  Unafraid. 

Jean’s hands snake around to grasp at the mossy rock. He anchors himself with the rock, holding firm to its concrete coldness.  Soft moss beneath his fingertips, cool earth on his palms.  Breathe in, breathe out. 

Another approaches – braided hair, chubby cheeks, brown eyes – _Sasha –_ and Jean watches her without seeing.  Cold, cold palms, cold from the rock, keeping him anchored.  Hammering heart slowing, peace coming, questions unfreeze from his sluggish mind – why are they here?  Why have they come?

The hammering of his heart stops. 

They are not here for him. 

 _Marco._  

On Marco’s name, his heart restarts violently.  His feet carry him forward before he thinks to move, his heart throbbing painfully, ravenous fear taking and taking and taking. 

_They cannot take him they cannot take him – I will not let Marco go, he cannot go, don’t go – I don’t want this to end! – please I’m not ready stop, stop, stop –_

Marco – Marco – where is he?!  Home, home, of course home.  Blindly, his feet had carried him there anyway.  Marco, sweet Marco, eyes not like sparrow’s down or warm chocolate or anything _Marco, Marco –_ Jean wants to sink into his hug, hear his laugh, wants to fade into Marco and leave Eren behind, let them leave.  They cannot disturb him, they cannot take Marco, he is not –

From behind him, he hears another pair of footsteps.  Jean’s heart trills with fear, his body comes collectively alive.  He flings himself off the edge of a rock, lands on the other side.  Who is chasing him, he doesn’t know, he looks over his shoulder and sees –

Furious green eyes.  Face contorted with a snarl.  Words – what words? – he can’t hear anything over the racing of his heartbeat,  He tries to move but he cannot.  Frozen like a bird caught in a snake’s stare.  _Eren is angry._  

A few words penetrate the thick fog surrounding Jean’s mind – _dead.  Kill._ His heart races.

_He needs to get to Marco._

And just as the other toes the edge of the jump, bracing for the leap, Jean tears himself away and sprints.  A new wildness fuels his every move, a fresh ferocity.  His feet hit the ground harder, his strides lengthen.  His heart throbs not with fear, but with _anger_ , foreign and hot and stimulating.

Eren will not catch him.  Eren will not find Marco, _his_ Marco.  Eren will not interrupt his fragile perfection, not yet, Jean won’t _let_ him, he’ll run as fast as he needs to. 

At last, his feet carry him to the base of the ledge where his tunnel, his home, resides.  He scales it in half a second, and when he reaches to the top, his desperate scramble to his feet disturbs the one curled up there. 

Orochi lifts his head with a purr of surprise.  Jean’s mind sweeps with irrational fear as their eyes meet.  _The color of the first grass of spring._ But there is nothing to fear from him, not from Orochi – he leaps to his feet, sniffs, eyes wide – then he bristles, he snarls. 

 _He protects Jean_.  A sharp pang of gratitude hits him through the waves of panic.  He spares half a heartbeat to smile and then bolts down the tunnel.  Through the fog, he hears the unmistakable sound of a Night Fury’s explosive fire. 

As the thought of being beside Marco, of Marco’s voice, of Marco’s embrace and smile and warmth and lips, as it grows closer to being a reality, Jean’s feet get faster.  Any panic pushed aside by feverish adrenaline returns full force, like he’s running into a brick wall.  His vision tunnels – around the curve, slipping on the ice, the glow of a fire – a figure – curled over the flames –

Marco, having been peacefully stirring his spoon through Berk’s special soup, lifts his head.  He hums distractedly, taking his sweet time to tear his gaze away from the bubbling surface of the cauldron.  When his eyes at last flick up to Jean, the contented smile drops from his face. 

The Viking scrambles to his feet, his hand going to his waist where a weapon would hang.  “Jean –”

With a choked noise, Jean throws himself at Marco.  The Viking staggers backwards, his arm wrapping around Jean’s shoulders as he buries his head into the crook of Marco’s neck.  The mask keeps him from feeling the warmth of his skin and traps wetness inside of it, against his cheeks. 

Marco recovers from his shock with a worried breath of Jean’s name.  His arm winds more concretely around Jean, holding him so tightly that for a moment, he feels safe.  Safe here, safe in Marco’s arm.  Listening to the croon of his name from a gentle man, safe, safe, untouchable, a piece of Valhalla brought down just for him. 

But fear springs like a steel trap in the next moment.  Jean’s eyes snap open.  He squirms out of Marco’s embrace just enough to look up into his face.  Babbled words fly from his mouth, but he doesn’t care to pick through them – Marco will know, Marco always knows, he needs to keep Marco _safe_ –

Over Marco’s shoulder, Jean spies unworked leather, and something in his mind clicks. 

The mask, the mask, _Marco’s_ mask.  Incomplete leather, rough edges, unpadded and undecorated, but it will do, it will hide his face and hide his eyes, _they will not find Marco here, they will not take him, he is not ready –_

Jean lunges for the table, slamming against Marco’s shoulder and dragging him along behind him.  His Viking squeaks and digs his heels into the dirt, spinning Jean back around with the strength of a mule.  Marco expertly catches both his wrists in one strong hand.  Desperately, Jean throws his weight backwards, but Marco holds firm. 

“Jean, talk to me,” Marco says, sounding frustrated.  “What is going on, what are you –”

“ _I’m not ready_ ,” Jean hears his voice hiss.  He watches Marco’s brow furrow, his lips part with another question, and becomes frustrated in return.  They need to go, they need to hurry – time is ticking too quickly now, making up for days of slow, lazy content, hammering in every beat of his heart.  He growls, pulling backwards, and Marco releases him. 

He staggers back, shaking his head.  There is no time, no time to explain.  If they do not move now, if they do not go –

But then. 

Movement, in the mouth of the tunnel.

Jean’s head whips up to see feral green eyes.  The man moves in a blur, without preamble, without warning, sword poised lethally.  Jean’s fear reaches a fanatical climax – he screams Marco’s name and lunges forward, as if he could protect him – the world moves in slow motion like tar, and Jean sees the blade swing. 

Unable to look away from Marco’s eyes, he watches helplessly as they harden into stone. 

And then abruptly, the world breaks free of time’s slow binds on it. 

Marco’s gaze rips away from Jean’s, and he spins around with a snarl.  The sword clatters to the ground at his feet.

* * *

 

They weren’t expecting someone to fight back. 

The sword knocks effortlessly from their fingers, their empty fists swinging forward for a clumsy amount of time after their blade hits the ground.  But it won’t last long.  I snatch one wrist midair and _lift_. 

They are heavy, but not outrageously so.  For a moment, they stay in a limp daze.  Their feet leaving the ground is a rude awakening. 

Snarling, they reach up to claw at my hand.  They swing their legs up and aim kicks at my legs, but they flail like a hooked fish.  I snatch their other wrist out of the air, and, with complete control, heave them up until our gazes are level. 

To be clear, I don’t know what the fuck is going on.  The extent of my knowledge is that this person – this little man dangling helplessly like knickers on a clothesline – scared Jean, _badly._   I know they tried to stab me in the back and that they’re not supposed to be here.  At the moment, it’s all I need to know, all I need to make my blood boil. 

But when I lift that squirming little man up and glare furiously into his eyes, I realize that perhaps, the whole story might help explain some things. 

They stop squirming immediately, going limp in my grasp.  “Marco?!”

“Eren?!”  I drop him, and he lands in a heap at my feet.  “Holy – holy _shit,_ Eren?!”

Eren scrambles to his feet, the sword forgotten and unclaimed by his boot.  He stares dumbly at me, and I stare dumbly back – Eren?  How did he find me?  How did he find this place?  Are there others, is something wrong?  Will I get to go home?

 _Home._   My gut pangs painfully.  I feel a massive grin spreading wide over my face.  _I can go home._

“Eren,” I say, my voice sounding too raw to be mine.

Eren’s eyes become glassy.  His lips quirk in an answering smile, teary and frail.  He takes one hesitant step forward, smiles broader, and hurls himself at my chest. 

As he knocks the breath out of me, I release a raspy chuckle, my arm wrapping around his shoulders in a weak imitation of the ferocity he bearhugs me with.  His arms squeeze tight enough to strangle around my middle, his forehead pressed ferociously into my shoulder to muffle any noises. 

“Shit, Marco, shit!” he half-sobs, rocking me side to side.  “I fucking – I fucking knew you weren’t dead, I fucking knew it!  Thank Thor, thank fuckin’ Thor, I can’t believe – Freya, fuck –“

“I’m not dead,” I reassure, resting my chin on his head as he quivers.  “I’m very much alive.  Promise.”

He laughs through tears.  “Fuck, Marco, I can tell, you’re – fuck, you’re so goddamned lucky that I’m such – such a _goddamned sap_ – I should be punching your goddamned lights out for makin’ me worry so much… I should be fucking murdering you…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I laugh, rubbing my hand in soothing patterns down his back.  “Eren, _Eren,_ fuck.”

“Where have you been?!” Eren demands, shoving roughly backwards to glare up at me.  “What the _fuck_ have you been up to?  The village is worried as fuck about you!”

I hang my head, ashamed.  “’M sorry, man, it’s – it’s been tough.”

“Fuck, I’m so fucking happy you’re back –”  He throws himself back into the hug.  “Fuck, Marco, fuck, I’ve missed you so fucking much…”

His chest heaves against me, his hands clutch tightly and roughly, as if to keep me grounded in this now.  Gently, I string my hand through his hair, stroking his head softly with the pads of my fingers.  As he shakes in my embrace, I hum soft words of comfort until he calms, his arms becoming lax around me. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ miracle, Bodt,” Eren whispers, peeking sideways up at me.  “You’ve died _twice_ now.  _Fuckin’ twice_.”

“Oh, dear,” I chuckle anxiously, “don’t tell me you burned another ceremonial Marco-boat.”

“I had to look at all five of your fuckin’ siblings crying over you, Bodt,” Eren growls.  “Don’t you ever think of pulling something like this again, you hear?”

“Um, sorry?”

“You fuckin’ should be.”  He slaps my arm in a way that I can’t decide is angry or friendly and pulls me back into a tight embrace.  “I’m so fuckin’ glad you’re okay.”

“I am, too,” I say softly, squeezing his shoulders.  He smells like home, here in my arm – painful nostalgia for the muddy bogs and moist hills of Berk hits me hard in the gut.  He came for me, he came to bring me home. 

_I can go home._

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and hold him tighter. 

I envision my mother, eyes filled with tears, welcoming me home – she’ll probably slap my shoulder same as Eren, but I tear up just thinking about feeling her hug again.  Ymir might put me in the infirmary with her welcome home punch.  Mina will cry, probably, the poor girl is such a sweetheart, and Thomas might as well, hiding in one of his Berkish bearhugs.  Maybe he’ll have the Hobblegrunt by now – or maybe not, maybe we can work on that together.  That’s okay.  I don’t know which I’d prefer. 

The clatter of boots on ice and people jostling into one another interrupts my reverie.  Eren pulls back and turns around.  I follow his gaze, blinking the tears from my eyes, as the rest of the gang bursts from the mouth of the tunnel. 

They’re all there, staggering to confused halts and blinking around at the little chamber.  Sasha, Connie, Mikasa, Armin, even _Ymir_ – every one of them came to find me.  Their all mouths fall open as they stumble forward.  But none of them have noticed me yet, gawking at the chambers, and they look so damn _stupid_ it brings tears to my eyes.    

“Guys,” Eren says in a hushed tone of voice, turning around.  “Guys, he’s… he’s here.”

He sweeps towards me with one hand, and Sasha snaps her gaze towards me first. 

“MARCO!”

With an unholy shriek, she launches herself across the room like a demon and latches onto me, arms and legs both.  Her impact knocks the breath out of me – I stagger back, gasping with laughter, wrapping my arm around her.  Connie ducks his head and charges at me like a bull.  He wraps his arms around my midriff and shoves his face into the crook of my neck.  I immediately notice the wetness of his cheeks. 

“Hey, hey guys – oh my gods, are you crying?” I croon, stroking at Connie’s bald head. 

“ _Yes!_ ” Sasha bawls, sobbing unabashedly loud.  She pulls back enough for me to see the ridiculous tracks of tears down her face.  Connie doesn’t stir, but his grip becomes that much more crushing. 

“Oh, goodness, don’t cry over me,” I panic, rubbing my hand in frantic circles along her back to try and soothe her sobs.  “Sash, Connie, hey, hey, it’s alright… Oh, gods, Sasha, what are you doing?”

She’s rubbing the palm of her hand ferociously against my cheek, as if trying to emphatically prove I am, in fact, in front of her.  I lean away from her, frowning, and try to evade her strange affection.  But a fist appears at the scruff of her armor, and, with an audible heave, Ymir tears them both off of me. 

“Ya fuckin’ bastard,” Ymir snarls ferociously, flinging them behind her, “I’m goin’ tah fuckin’ kill ya, gonna bring ya back in a fuckin’ boat tah burn all by my fuckin’ self, fuckin’ scalp ya, ya mothafuckah, I’m gonna fuckin’ –” 

Growling, she deals a brutal punch to my shoulder.  It _hurts_ like hell, but then her big arms wrap me in a warm, all-encompassing hug that pins my arm to my side.  I can’t do anything but laugh and melt into her embrace – strength acquired from years working over a hot forge can’t really be fought against. 

I butt my forehead affectionately against the side of her head.  “Missed you, Ymir.”

She slams the heel of her boot into my toe and steps back, scowling.  If her eyes are a bit glassier than usual, I don’t dare comment. 

“Yar a son o’ a bitch, Marco,” she seethes, slinging a halfhearted punch against my bicep.  “Missed ya too.”

“Not too much, I hope?”

“Way too much, Marco, I’m too damn dependent on ya.”  She shakes her head ruefully.  “Ya’ve made me go weak, dammit.  I’m practically a fuckin’ daisy picker!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Armin laughs softly.  He edges around Ymir like a fawn venturing cautiously forth, watching me with big, careful eyes.  I feel like the breath’s been punched out of my chest more powerfully than a bearhug ever could – a sweet smile curls at the edges of my mouth. 

Even Armin – shy, boyish, weak little Armin – came to look for me.  He lopes cautiously up from the back of the pack, tucking his hair behind his ear.  The tough journey doesn’t seem to have had any effect on him – he looks as cute as ever. 

“Hi, Armin,” I breathe, shoulders slumping, smiling. 

At last, a smile breaks through his caution.  Blushing and rocking on the balls of his feet, he says bashfully, “Hi, Marco.”

I hold my arm out for a hug, and he complies, picking his way carefully over to me.  Perhaps his hug was meant to be as rough as the rest of the gang’s, but his tiny arms cannot muster the same strength.  He smells, unsurprisingly, of ink and old paper, but I discover as I squeeze him tighter that he also smells like dragon.  I grin and release him, tousling his hair playfully. 

“Can’t believe you came for me, Armin,” I chuckle as he squeaks and ducks away from my hand.  “Can’t believe any of you came for me – I’m just – how did you find me, even?”

“Discussions for later times,” Mikasa smoothes, striding fluidly to my side.  She places a gentle kiss to my cheekbone, just tender enough to draw a virgin blush to my cheeks.  But it’s aloof in nature, as lacking in romance as Mikasa herself.  Resting her hand against my shoulder, she cocks her head to one side, as exquisite and distant as ever. 

“How are you?” she inquires, squeezing me gently.  “Why haven’t you come home?”

“Yeah, Marco, great question!” Connie hollers, still sounding a bit choked.  When I look up, I notice his eyes are rimmed with red. 

“Aye, boy,” Ymir growls, fixing me with an intense glare, “where have ya been?  Couldn’ta been here the whole damn time, could it?”

“Where even is here?” Armin chimes in.  “Outside, is that –”

“A Bewilderbeast?”  I nod curtly.  “Yeah, yeah it is, one of the last of its kind.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been neglecting your home to go gallanting with dragons,” Eren warns with a fiery glare.  “If that’s the case, make up some story, I don’t wanna hear that dragonshit.”

“No, no, actually… actually, there’s something… you guys need to know…”

In the bustle of joyful reunion, Jean had faded into the back corners of my mind, all thoughts of him overridden by excitement.  He’d slipped away, quietly, unseen even by me, and crept off to watch the scene unfold.  As I lift my gaze from to his, I feel the most bizarre feeling in my chest – like my heart is simultaneously racing with excitement and sinking like a stone. 

It crashes into me that Jean is probably terrified at this exact moment.  That _this,_ exactly this, is what he was so terrified of.  Looking at him, crouched in the mouth of the tunnel beside Eydis, half-cloaked by shadow, it isn’t hard to imagine that terror.  Especially when he flinches behind Eydis’ crest when my shoulders slump and the rest of the group turns curiously around. 

But at the same time…

“Dragon,” I murmur, cleaving through the crowd.  He lifts his head ever so slightly at his name, the black, lifeless eyes of the mask staring back at me from the shadows.  I pause at what I hope is an appropriate distance away. 

I want to give him room to flee if it’s too much.  If he doesn’t want to reveal himself yet?  Fine.  They know him as Dragon, and Dragon only. 

But as for me? 

More than anything, I want to reintroduce him to Berk.  It hits me with the force of a Gronckle to the chest that I want to show him my world as he’s shown me his – I want him to see my home, to see my family, my friends.  A blossoming hope for equilibrium spreads tingling warmth through my veins. 

Eydis watches me with her big yellow eyes, assessing me cautiously.  Her gaze does not wave when I lift my hand for Jean, should he step out of the shadows to take it.  My hand hangs in the air as a silent invitation. 

 _Let me show you my world,_ I implore him silently, managing a sweet smile.  _I’ll be with you every step of the way._

There is a long moment of silence.  

My heart hammers nervously in my chest with every motionless second that passes by, every impatient whisper between Sasha and Connie.  He sits, frozen, fingers clutching at Eydis’ silver scales, and watches me.  Those dead eyes hold no inflection, not a clue to his intent. 

Just as I begin to ponder backing down, and how to do so in a way as not to make him feel awkward, he moves. 

Slowly, Jean rises from his crouch.  Armin sucks in a nervous gasp behind me, but I ignore him, shooting my Dragon as disarming a smile as I can manage.  My hand still hangs between us, outstretched. 

They more than likely cannot see the fear in his first step.  They more than likely cannot read the tension in his shoulders as he releases Eydis.  When he moves towards me and away from her, his terrified heart beats fast and furious in his chest, filled with the fright of a spooked wild animal. 

But all the same – despite that fear, despite his beating heart – he lopes elegantly forward.  And, after a moment of considering the outstretched hand, he slips his fingers into my palm and tucks himself against my side. 

A flourish of happiness spikes my pulse.  I smile down at him with shameless adoration, ecstatic with his decision to trust me.  And, as I turn around, lacing our fingers together as I do so, he leans his forehead against my shoulder. 

Seized by a warm, engulfing wave of affection, I’m smiling like a lovestruck fool when I look back up to the group.  Eren’s look of shock is enough to snap me out of it. 

Armin stares, uncomprehending, at our entwined hands.  All too suddenly, I’m aware of the situation between him and Eren that has long since slipped my mind, and instantly, I feel uncomfortable with this flagrant flaunting of my relationship with Jean.  But it is done, and Jean needs the reassurance, so I squeeze his hand and take a small step forward. 

“How much do you guys know about what’s happened to me?” I venture cautiously, eyeing them suspiciously. 

Ymir chuckles, calling attention to her gigantic wolfy grin.  “We know ya got kidnapped by the dragon-trapper bozos.  We know they ain’t shit no more.  Not much more than that, tiger.  Who’s yar new friend, eh?”

“This is – well…” – I laugh awkwardly – “it’s a long story.  He’s been taking care of me, he lives here, this is… his home.”

“He lives in the den of a Bewilderbeast?” Armin says sharply.  “Is – is that even possible?”

“Evidently,” Mikasa says evenly, stepping forward.  Nodding towards Jean, she asks, “You helped Marco?  You’ve kept him safe?”

I glance down at Jean, curious to see how he responds.  He hesitates, squeezes my hand, and nods curtly. 

“And this, this is your home?  All this” – she sweeps an arm to the little cave and all its miscellaneous trinkets – “is yours?”

He nods again.  Over my shoulder, Eydis puffs out a stressed breath, watching my friends suspiciously. 

“Then we owe you our thanks,” Mikasa says calmly, bowing her head.  “You helped our brother in arms when we were unable; and earning a favor from the Vikings of Berk is no small deal.”

Jean ducks his head again in a nod, not yet venturing to speak. 

“And if yar tellin’ the truth, ya got a favor from me, too, ya creepy fuck,” Ymir grunts.  “Why’re ya wearing that mask, boy?”

“Is it because of scars?” Sasha pipes up, sounding acutely interested.  “Because if it’s scars, it’s totally okay.  We won’t be disgusted, we promise.”

“Dude, if it’s scars, you _have_ to show us,” Connie chimes in with a gasp. 

“It’s not because of scars,” I admonish, rolling my eyes. 

“Ah, dammit,” Sasha sighs.  “Why’re you all hidden, then?  We’re sorry about Eren trying to stab you and shit, he does that.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Eren says, scratching at the back of his neck.  “I, uh.  Didn’t think we’d find many friendly faces in here.”

I blanch, dismayed.  “Eren!  You didn’t!”

“Maybe a little bit,” he mutters, staring at his feet like a scolded child.  He nervously wrings his wrist, sparing me a shameful glance.  “I don’t think the dragon likes me very much.  But, um.  It was… I guess… I thought it was something else.”

I blink a few times, unable to make heads or tails of that.  “…What?”

Eren shrugs uncomfortably.  “Reminded me of a dragon from a long time ago.  Jumped to conclusions.  Big mistake, I’m sorry.”

“Eydis is the same dragon.”

Jean’s voice is a proud declaration that echoes unchallenged through the cave, met with stunned silence and wide eyes.  The leather does not muffle it, and his words ring out clear and precise.  His head lifts and he assumes a more regal stance, releasing my hand with a parting squeeze.  Transfixed, I watch him take a half-step forward, the cloak fluttering weakly around his ankles, and pause before his audience. 

My gaze slips from Jean, breathing in and out to calm himself, to the rest of my friends, assembled in a half-circle around us both.  Eren’s mouth had fallen open, his eyes narrowing incredulously, and the rest had taken up his cue subconsciously, shifting into battle-ready stances.  Behind me, Eydis growls low and even. 

Jean swallows and glances for a half second at me.  I’m not sure what he sees when he looks back into my eyes, bruised, crippled Viking I am, but it seems to give him strength.  Squaring his shoulders, he reaches up and slips his helmet off. 

He shakes out his hair in a silence so thick you could hear a pin drop.  Tucking the helmet beneath his arm, he looks nervously out at his assembled audience and manages a tiny wave. 

“Hi,” Jean squeaks like an absolute dork. 

Absolute silence. 

“Well,” Ymir breathes, “I’ll be damned.”

Eydis’ growing growl jars me back to life.  Each of them are a potential threat to a now-exposed Jean, a now-vulnerable Eydis – prowling up behind him, I assess each of my friends with narrowed eyes, prepared to throw myself in front of any blades. 

But none come.  The warriors of Berk simply stare.  Sasha’s hand snakes to Connie’s wrist and holds him closer to her, whispering a soft question, but no one else moves for a long minute other than dumb, comprehending blinks.  Even clever Armin never anticipated this turn of events, even Ymir and all her little birds never knew this secret. 

Jean Kirschtein, alive and well, rider of the glorious Stormcutter and lover of Marco Bodt. 

I get a trill of pride from the thought of it. 

At last, Eren takes half a step forward.  His expression morphs suddenly into something unreadable, something shadowed.  Fixing his gaze on Jean, he again steps closer. 

Jean’s confident façade cracks.  He bows his head ever so slightly, a shiver running down his spine.  There is something tangible in the air that keeps me from intervening, something that feels so inherently private – this doesn’t feel like something I ought to watch.  But I cannot bring myself to leave Jean now, not entirely. 

He takes a step backwards, sinking instinctively downwards into a crouch.  One step turns into two as Eren draws steadfastly nearer.  My heart pulls painfully; the nervous defensiveness in his expression shifts into terror. 

“I –  Jean’s voice cracks.  He swallows, shakes his head, and stares up at Eren in a panic.  “I know this probably isn’t what you expected.”  His hands knot together nervously.  “ _I_ am not what you expected.”

Eren’s open mouth pulls into a tiny smile, but his eyes widen dangerously, giving him the appearance of a madman.  Jean’s words only speed him up – he advances quicker now, more purposefully.  I find myself moving out of the way to watch. 

“How dare I leave you, right?” Jean says with a soft huff of humorless laughter.  “How could I – _why_ did I.  I… I don’t have answers.”

Jean’s back hits the icy cavern wall, and Eydis snarls another warning, but like me, she comes no closer – perhaps she too recognizes the strange tension in the air, unlike anything I’ve known.  Perhaps she too knows it is not a tension for her to break.  Jean scrambles on the ice, eyes filling with panicked tears. 

“I – I can’t say I’m sorry.  I am not.  _I am not sorry_.  So… just… leave me alone!”

 _Leave him alone._   I lean forward, ready to step between them, but Eren does not pause, does not even falter, until they stand nose to nose.  Jean’s chest heaves, his eyes glance around rapidly for a chance of escape, his fingers clutch at the ice. 

And Eren simply stands – so close to Jean, _too_ close, I feel my hackles rising and a fire of jealousy spark to life.  He seeks Jean’s gaze with that unreadable expression, very blatantly waiting until Jean obliges. 

“Dammit, Eren,” Jean growls, lifting his head to glare at Eren with a snarl, “the hell do you want?!”

Eren moves quickly, too quickly for me to react. 

He lunges forward and grabs Jean, pulling him off the wall, out of his defensive stance.  My heart leaps in my throat, expecting the worst – I start forward, fist clenching, ready to tear him off of Jean, but –

Eren pulls Jean into a fierce embrace, a fat tear rolling down his cheek.  His shoulders shake violently, quivering arms nearly squeezing the life out of Jean, as if to prove that he is, indeed, right there in front of him – one quivering hand fists in the hair at the back of Jean’s head, bringing the two of them closer together. 

“For fuck’s sake, Jean,” Eren hiccups, beginning to sob against Jean’s chest, “you absolute bag of _dicks_ – fuck, fuck, I can’t believe…”

The tension seeps from my shoulders, fading into amusement.  Jean looks absolutely mortified.  He sends me a glance filled with a very different sort of panic – a more reassuring sort. 

 _Marco help there’s someone crying on my shoulder_ , his eyes read. 

I smirk and shake my head. 

“I…”  Mystified, Jean pats the top of Eren’s head awkwardly.  “Uh, hi.”

Eren barks a quick burst of laughter and slips back into body-shaking sobs, holding Jean tightly.  Like a damn fool, I beam at the two of them, outrageously pleased with this turn of events.  A small smile pulls at the corners of Jean’s lips, too, and I’m certain that Eren is smiling against his shoulder. 

It isn’t a guarantee of smooth seas.  There’s more to discuss, more wounds to heal, but it’s not time for that.  Those can be put off for another day.  I don’t want to focus on anything but this love in my heart.

“Armin!”  Red-eyed and snotty, Eren pulls off of Jean just enough to turn towards the other boy.  “Write a letter to Erwin – tell him that we’ve found two of our lost brothers!  Tell him that Jean Kirschtein’s returned to us!  Tell him he’s coming home at last!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, I hope you guys enjoy this! The big chapter at last... I hope you all enjoyed this! Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments last chapter, and all your well-wishings for my exams! 
> 
> Also! I created aesthetic things? If you want to see them, here's [Marco's](http://do-not-go-gentl.tumblr.com/post/145991103381/marco-aesthetic-from-my-httyd-au-if-we-stand-if) and [Jean's](http://do-not-go-gentl.tumblr.com/post/145466815191/im-trying-something-new-heres-an-aesthetic-for) if you're interested!
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Monstrous Nightmare](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Monstrous_Nightmare)  
> 


	13. The Cove

Jean’s shoulder is giving him trouble. 

All evening, he’s been favoring it.  Even though he tried to hide it throughout the joyful reunion, I noticed his hesitance out of the corner of my eye.  He flinched away from playful punches and winced at even the gentlest of my embraces.  As we traded tales over a flask of Ymir’s powerful spirits and the brewing pot of Berk stew, he’d shifted this way and that, unable to get comfortable.  

At the time, I’d accredited it to nerves.  Not to say that his nerves weren’t a part of the picture; his lionhearted façade only fools those who haven’t seen beneath it, and I have.  My boy’s scared out of his wits. 

There hasn’t been a moment for us to be alone to talk about what’s bothering him.  I don’t need one to tell that he’s absurdly worried that I’ll leave him.  He stuck to my side like a barnacle most of the night, glancing at me nervously when he thought I wasn’t looking, glowering at those I talked to. 

It was in equal parts gratifying and suffocating. 

One of the saving graces of the night had been, surprisingly, Ymir – she’d granted me a few moments to speak to my comrades without Jean by my side.   She stole him away under the guise of his leatherworking skills, but when I crept curiously up behind them, I wasn’t wholly surprised to hear the tail-end of the story about the two of us getting drunk enough to jump naked off Berk’s cliffs. 

Ymir’s blunt, crass ways meshed well with Jean’s smug attitude.  They certaintly didn’t take any of the either’s shit, but they seemed to hit it off. 

When it was time to say goodnights, Ymir pounded good-naturedly on his shoulder after pulling me into a tight embrace.  I’d heard his quiet, pained wheeze, but it seems no one else had. 

Now, as my friends disappear down the mouth of the tunnel, worry ties a tight knot in my stomach.  Images, horrors flash through my mind – my throat feels shaky with fear. 

_Had Eren hurt him?_

During his exaggerated description of their brief battle, Eren had bared skin mottled with purple from landed blows on his ribs.  All I see in my mind’s eye are those bruises, even plastered with a smile for the sake of the gang.  If anything like those bruises exists on Jean’s shoulders – my heart becomes sick and heavy in my chest at the mere thought of it. 

I listen apprehensively for the sounds of their footsteps and chatter to disappear.  Beside me, Jean seems too nervous to even breathe.  A small shiver runs through his shoulders and _gods,_ I hope he’s not scared of me with every fiber of my being, I couldn’t stand him shying away from me now.

The moment I can hear the gang no longer, I whirl on him anxiously.  He bursts back to life in the same instant.  Jean tries to back away from me, but I don’t let him – frowning, I grab his waist and pull him closer to me.  My hand finds the straps of his armor and tugs clumsily to free him. 

Jean’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t try to stop me.  A bit of the tension leaks from his shoulders.  “Marco, what –”

“Your shoulder’s hurting you,” I murmur, fixing him with a stern gaze.  “Isn’t it, Jean?”

His eyes flash with surprise.  _Caught him_. 

“Yes, it is,” he says in a soft voice, laying his hand over mine.  His cold fingers grasp mine tightly – crescents of black dirt cling beneath his chipped nails.  I freeze, staring in horror at the bruises on his knuckles.  _Good Thor._ He squeezes my hand, and, feeling panicky, I look back up into his eyes. 

They’re gentle.  Soft.  Warm.  The eyes of the man I trust more than anyone else in the world, the eyes that only I get to see filled with such adoration.  My heart fills with that same gentleness, but it only makes my worry that much worse. 

I couldn’t bear it if anything has hurt him.  If _my friends_ have hurt him.  

His smile saddens a bit.  He pulls his arm back to his side.  “I can – I can do it, Marco.” 

“Jean –”  I cut short, hesitating.  I don’t want to offend him, but I _really_ want to help him out.  He must see it in my eyes because he heaves an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes playfully. 

“What, Viking?” he asks, warmly saying my pet name.  Again, I’m struck by how beautiful his eyes are.  I wonder if I’ll ever tire of the way they shine – I hope not. 

Sticking my lip out, I fix him with my best puppy dog pout.  “Can I fuss over your shoulder?” I implore.  “Pretty please?”

He snorts.  “You are trying to extort me.”

“I’m not.  I’m trying to help you.  You’re hurt.”

“You’re abusing the power of your cute face.” Jean frowns.  “Stop that.”

A sly, guilty grin steals across my face.  “Who, me?  I’m just innocent lil Marco.”

“No such thing,” he mumbles, but the corners of his lips pull reluctantly into a smile.  “ _Fine._ You can look at it.  But just because you’re ridiculous, and I…”

“Could use a little pampering?”  I take his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.  “That’s what I’m here for, Jean.  _You_.” 

A pretty blush spreads across his cheeks.  _So cute._   Smiling over my shoulder, I lead him across the chamber towards his bed.  He follows me willingly, now openly favoring his injured shoulder, wincing at every step.  I watch with concern. 

“So tell me how you’re feeling about all this,” I say, searching his gaze.  “The gang, I mean.  Not your shoulder.”

He puffs out a heavy breath that makes the tips of his bangs flutter.  “…Overwhelmed.  Worried.  Anxious.  I am not sure.”

“That’s not good,” I fret.  I pull him down onto the bed gently beside me, ever so mindful of his wounds.  “Anything I can do to help?”

Jean shrugs with only his uninjured shoulder, leaning his weight against mine. 

With the back of my hand, I sweep his soft hair back out of his face.  “Do you want to talk about it?  I think that can really help me, sometimes.  Getting how you’re feeling out in the open and in words can help you make sense of it.  Y’know?”

“No,” he answers frankly.  “…But… I will give it a try?”  Jean glances sheepishly up at me, then rapidly away.  “I may be terrible.”

“Whatever works for you.”  My hands busy themselves with the straps of his armor, but I spare him a reassuring smile.  “I’m here for you though.  Right?”

Jean smiles candidly and bobs his head up and down a few times.  It takes him a moment to actually start talking, but I know how to be patient; he speaks in his own time, and though it’s halting and stilted in his typical fashion, it’s from the heart. 

“It’s… it’s too much.”  His fists clench in the fabric of his cloak.  “I do not know.  I… I wish they hadn’t… come _here_.  Yet.”

“You wanted it to be on your terms when they did?” I surmise

He nods a few times, refusing to meet my eye. 

“I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t have minded a few more days alone with you – those days were rather… serene, weren’t they?” I hum wistfully, freeing his pauldron from the rest of his straps.  It slides easily off his shoulders, hitting the bed with a heavy thud. 

“Yes,” Jean agrees, nodding enthusiastically as if I’d hit the nail on the head.  “…I do not want change yet.”

I kiss his temple thoughtfully.  “Well, there’s no saying we have to go to Berk yet.  And we can make them sleeping in the outer caves a permanent arrangement if you’d prefer.”

They’d decided not to move all their stuff to Jean’s little cave today, just to set up camps where their dragons set down.  No future plans were really discussed – it’d be a piece of cake to keep that as a permanent venture. 

“That – yes.”  He lifts his arms up weakly for me to slide his breastplate over his head, and peeks at me sheepishly through his eyelashes.  “Could you – would you mind…?”

“I’ll break it to them.”  I gingerly pull the breastplate over his head and set it beside his pauldron, and when I look up again, he’s staring sweetly at me.  A soft sort of smile, a gentle smile, pulls at the corners of his lips, and his eyes look as warm as the sun, and every bit as beautiful. 

“You’re…”  He trails off and shakes his head, smile twisting into a smirk. 

“Thank you,” I chuckle.  “You, too.  But you do understand that I’m not going to leave you?  I’m not going to run on home now that I’ve got the means.  You’re still my Dragon.”

“It is good to hear,” Jean murmurs, twisting around and slotting our lips briefly together.  But my hand settles tenderly and ignorantly on his shoulder, and he hisses, jerking out of the kiss.  I flinch backwards, mumbling a hazy apology. 

“Sorry, sorry –”

“It’s alright,” he mumbles, wincing and rolling his shoulder stiffly.  “Fuck.  That hurts.”

I regard him worriedly, watching him fidget for a few moments.  “Jean?” 

He lifts his gaze in question.  Careful not to touch sore skin, I fiddle with the hem of his shirt, looking for permission in his face.  He doesn’t provide it.  When he looks down at his hands and pulls away from me, my heart falls to my boots. 

“Hey, Jean.”

I drop into a crouch in front of his knees, catching his gaze for just a moment before he flushes and looks away.  A slight tremor runs through his hands – his palms are sweaty, but they weren’t before.  I grab his bicep in an act of comfort and shake it gently to get his attention. 

“Jean, what’s up?”

“I –”  He pauses and licks his lips.  If not for his current anxiety, I’d find that captivating. 

“I’m not sure what you are going to see,” he admits, hanging his head.  “It – may not – _will_ not.  It will not be pretty.”

I squeeze his arm.  “You think I care about that, Jean?”

He shrugs with one shoulder, looking away.  _He does._

Before I can cluck my tongue disapprovingly, he takes off his shirt in a fluid motion, flinging it somewhere over my head.  My eyes nearly bulge out of my head.   

His torso is well-sculpted, for all its wiriness.  As lovely a sight as it is, it isn’t what captures my attention.  A disgusting bruise clouds over his shoulder, mottling at the corners with sickly yellow and green.  It’s everything I feared it would be.  My breath escapes in a sharp hiss, and before I can stop it, I flinch away from the wound. 

“Good Thor in Valhalla, Jean – what the hell is this?!”

He shrugs with his uninjured shoulder.  “Eren.  He.  Uh.  Got me good.  When we fought.”

A hot bolt of directionless anger shoots through my gut.  “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” I snap, raking my hand through my hair.  “Fucking hell, Jean, that bruise looks like it hurts like hell.”

His eyes lower with a muttered _yeah_.  He looks like a kicked puppy, shoulders hunching and expression pathetic, legs kicking sadly at the ground. 

“Oh, Jean…”  I sink down onto the bed beside him.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs answerlessly again, but I think I know the reason.  And as stupid-ass of a reason it is, it makes my heart wrench.  _He didn’t want to seem weak in front of his old friends._

“You’re an idiot, Jean.”  A strain of anger laces through my carefully gentle tone.  My gut feels like a hot gnarl of snakes are twisting around inside, knotting tighter and tighter with each passing second. 

He bites his lower lip and nods dejectedly, squeezing his eyes shut.  A slight tremor runs through the taut muscles of his hands, arcing up along his arms.  I realize he’s frightened by me – something I’m doing is scaring him.  With a pulse of fear in my heart and a heavy sigh, I drop my gaze and take a moment to clear my head.

“C’mon, let’s get you something for this, okay?” I murmur, resting a feather-light finger on the edges of the green.  He sucks in a gasp but doesn’t flinch away from my touch. 

“I have a poultice, in the bookshelf,” Jean murmurs, staring out of the corner of his eye down at my hand, still braced on his shoulder.  After a moment, he bites his lip and looks pointedly away. 

“You okay?” I ask, cheeks flushing almost immediately.  “I mean – no, you’re obviously not, but – you didn’t hide this from _me_ , right?”

Jean’s eyes widen comically.  “No, no!” he exclaims, bouncing to the edge of his bed. 

“Okay.”  I kiss his forehead slowly, lips curling a smile as he hums, tension seeping back out of his body.  His skin tastes faintly of sweat, but I can’t bring myself to care.  One of his hands settle on the back of my thigh, curling possessively into the sensitive inside. 

“I’m on your side, okay, Jean?” I whisper against his forehead, tousling his silky hair affectionately.  “Yours.”

“You are of Berk.”  His words are blunt, stubborn, but upset, and he shakes me off of his forehead and out of his hair.  After a moment, he butts his forehead against my chest with a soft smack of leather. 

“So were you, once.”  I gently pull his head back and sweep my thumb over his cheekbone, unable to resist smiling at the way his pupils blow wide from the caress.  “Things change, Jean.  Before I’m ‘of Berk’, I’d like to think I’m yours.  Yours and Orochi’s, that is.”

He smiles, and though it’s laced with pain, there’s a trace of candidness in it that I hadn’t seen before. 

“Can’t have Orochi getting jealous,” he teases. 

“Yeah, well, he was technically here first,” I point out, rolling my eyes.  “However, we’ve got more pressing matters than debating my allegiance.”

“Do we though?”

I ignore him, prodding carefully around the edges of his wound.  “How much is this hurting you?”

He smacks my hand away.  “A whole fuckin’ lot, cut that out.” 

“Not even a few hours around Eren and you’re already sounding like him,” I sigh despairingly. 

He fixes me with a petulant glare.  “Take that back.”

“Stop fussing.”  I tap his nose with the tip of a finger.  “You said it was in the bookshelf?”

He puffs out an irritated breath through his nose like a dragon, sulking still, grumbling an agreement.  If he didn’t look so cute when he pouts, I might take him a bit more seriously.  I tap his nose again and peck a quick kiss a second after, turning around before he can reciprocate. 

His hand shoots out and catches mine right as I begin to walk away.  He surges upright and wraps his arms around my torso, trapping me before I can take another step, and he peppers a legion of fairy kisses against the back of my neck.  Laughing, I lean back into him and top one of his arms with my own. 

“Are you going to let me get your poultice?” I giggle, grinning over my shoulder at him. 

“Nope.”  A few kisses land in quick succession around my armor’s collar.  “Not yet.”  A few more up my nape.  “You – you gotta…”  Along my hairline.  “You gotta know.”

“Know what?”  I squirm a little bit as his kisses become harder, needier, but his arms are as unrelenting as steel.  “Jean…”

“How goddamned _lucky_ I am.”  Hard, sucking kisses trail around my neck, and into the hollow beneath my ear.  They’re _different,_ these kisses, they’re more insistent and rougher – his teeth sinking delicately into my skin causes a heady moan to escape me.

His kisses, they’re deep and they’re _claiming._ With an excited tingle down my spine, I realize he’s marking me as his, and he’s very sure to do it in a visible place.  But just as I string together a logical thought, he growls, clutches me closer against him, and sucks _hard_ into the kiss.  My back arches involuntarily. 

“Hey,” I chuckle huskily, glancing back at him over my shoulder.  “I… I see what you’re up to, Jean.  I’ve got to get your… _ah_ … your poultice.”

He hums, letting up to bury his nose in the curls at the back of my neck.  The marks he’s already left sting pleasantly in the cold air. 

“What I’m up to?” Jean chuckles in a voice that almost sounds like a growl.  “Marco, you make me sound… criminal.”

“ _Jean…_ ”  I throw my head back with a groan, but this one is melodramatic and pouty.  “You’re just going to shy away once you’ve given me a boner, _and_ you need to treat that shoulder.”

He sighs tediously, arms going slack.  “ _Fine._   I’m still a lucky bastard.”

“And I’m a lucky bastard who now has a score of lovebites down his neck.”  I twist around to land an innocuous kiss at his temple.  “You’re not fooling me, Jean.”

“I don’t see you complaining.”

“No, you do not.”  I laugh, wriggling out of his arms.  “Sit down, Jean, you’ll be miserable tomorrow if we don’t treat that bruise.”

Grumbling, he flops backwards on the bed, a slight wince betraying the pain of his shoulder.  Otherwise, he seems only like a grumpy starfish, splayed out over the pelts.

“If you’re going to be mean about it,” he grouses, “take off your armor.  Shirt.  Shirt, too.”

“What?”  Laughing, I walk off, shaking my head.  “Why do you want me to do that, Jean?”

He gestures towards his own bare chest.  “Only fair!” he insists, blinking innocently. 

“Uh huh, why didn’t you run around without a shirt for those weeks where I didn’t have one?” I challenge.  “That’s equality.”

“Hmmmm.”  He grins crookedly.  “You were bruised and purple.  And I – barely knew you.”

“Well, you’re bruised and purple right now, so I’m going to ignore that.”  He whines despairingly in protest, but, grinning, I walk unapologetically away. 

The cushions that usually sit in a neat ring around the fire are scattered around the chamber, each lumpy and sad-looking.  I spare a guilty glance to the lovely red one Connie had held up for Sasha to use as a punching bag when she got a little too emotional.  This first meeting, it was too chaotic – I’ll have to try and speak with them all privately, first thing tomorrow.

Which means waking up earlier than Jean.  I heave a resigned sigh.  _Yet again, Marco must sacrifice his beauty sleep for the good of all._

His old, moldy bookshelf is filled with very few books – mostly, it’s just odd bundles of herbs and pots of garlic and other seasonings.  On the third shelf from the bottom are his medicinal herbs, but it’s every bit as cluttered.  I bite my lip for a few moments, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the multitude of different pastes and powders. 

“Jean!” I call over my shoulder.  “What does it look like, the poultice?”

He doesn’t respond for a long few seconds, but one glance over my shoulder tells me why not. 

“Hello, Eydis,” I say in a lilting, calm voice, as not to disturb her.  One yellow flashes my direction assessingly, but with a dismissive flick of her tail, she immerses herself in nuzzling against Jean’s face. 

The Stormcutter had been rattled by the sudden appearance of Eren, a ghost of her past come to put a sword through her heart.  She’d spent most of the bittersweet reunion snarling at him anytime he got too close to Jean and, initially, me.  But something about seeing Eren and I act so friendly – my heart pangs a little, and I hang my head.  She’s not as comfortable around me anymore. 

But that’s okay.  I try to convince myself that that is indeed okay, busying myself in the medicine shelf. 

“It looks like… purple flask,” Jean directs distractedly.  “Should be… top shelf?”

On the top shelf it is, a plump glass container with no label whatsoever.  I snatch it up and start over towards him, already working at the stubborn cork.  It’s harder than it looks with only one hand. 

The cork comes free with a pop, and I shake a bit of it instinctively into my hand.  Bottle beneath my arm, I rub the substance suspiciously between two of my fingers.  It seems harmless enough.  Satisfied that I’m not going to smear poisonous plants all over my lover’s wounded shoulder, I dump a bit more into my hand. 

When I lift my head from the poultice, I’m met with a somber scene.  Eydis nuzzles against Jean’s cheek, crooning softly, her eyes wide with concern.  One of her great wings wraps around him protectively.  And Jean – he looks shattered.  I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him so vulnerable, with his armor gone and his eyes glossy, distracted.  His hands shake as they touch whatever’s in front of him. 

“Jean!”  I break into a jog, poultice sliding through my fingers.  “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

He lifts his eyes to mine, but it’s like he’s in a daze.  “Nothing…” he murmurs.  “I – I’m fine.”

 _Dragonshit_. 

I approach carefully.  My chest feels tight with worry, like someone’s taken my heart and clenched it in their fist.  I sink down onto the bed beside him, brushing the hair gently out of his face regardless of the traces of the poultice still on my hand.  He leans into my touch, but his eyes don’t leave the items on the bed. 

 _They’re splinters_ , I realize, eyes widening.  _Splinters from his staff._  

Jean’s staff connects him to the rest of the nest, its rattling tip his primary way of communicating with the dragons.  I can’t imagine the workmanship that went into it, but judging by the quality of the wood, it’s nearly a decade old.  It’s been with him almost since the beginning. 

“I’m okay,” Jean says again, but it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself.  He sniffs and rubs at one of his eyes, trying to pass it off with a cough.  “I – it’s just a staff.”

Eydis croons, nudging against his forehead.  She must’ve brought it for him. 

My arm winds around his waist.  He lets himself be pulled against me; he rests his head upon my shoulder and rubs his cheek into my armor, seeking affection like a cat.  My heart is his – I give it to him automatically, kissing his forehead and stroking my thumb along his bony hips. 

“It’s alright if you’re not okay,” I say quietly.  “I’m here for you.  Eydis is here for you, too.  It’s okay to not be okay.”

“Thank you, Viking,” Jean says, clutching me tighter.  His hand strokes along the long shaft of the staff absentmindedly.  “…But I am… I am okay.  Will be, maybe.”

I nervous press a kiss to the top of his head.  “You sure?” I murmur into his pine-scented hair, heart heavy with worry. 

“A staff… can be rebuilt.”  He kisses my jawline lightly.  “It is not the end of the world.”

But I’d seen the look in his eyes, the heartbreak he’d felt plain across his face.  There was something deeper in Eren’s breaking his precious staff, irreparably damaging it.  Unintentionally, Jean’s connection to the world he knew was severed by Eren.  Maybe it hadn’t quite hit until now, maybe these splinters of something beautiful had been swept aside to make room for the bustle of before, maybe Jean’s upset and simply needs something to be angry over.  Whatever the reasons, he’s not okay. 

And he’s not willing to let me help him. 

It… stings, a bit.  But perhaps this, like so many other things, is just Jean’s way. 

So I cuddle him closer, injured shoulder and poultice both forgotten for the time being, and hug him tight against me, as if an embrace alone could help him with the gnarl of worries lodged deep inside.

* * *

 

“Jean’s changed.” 

Eren sounds momentously troubled by this. 

“Well, what did you expect?” Armin says, peacefully rifling through the few belongings he’d brought in his pack.  His pelts are already rolled out, makeshift pillow sitting plumped and ready at the top of the bed.  The few books he’d brought to read sit in a neat stack beside it. 

Eren, however, has no such sleeping area arranged. 

Other than moving all their packs to a little alcove on the far wall of the chamber, he’s done nothing in the way of unpacking.  The sun sinks lower and the eerie green of the magnificent icy spikes becomes more and more muted.  Dim light from Ymir’s small campfire paints the ice with bright streaks, casts Eren’s face in orange, but even that peters off and abandons its color to the darkness as the minutes tick by. 

Dragons and people both breathe deep and heavy, exhausted after the long trip and the emotional roller coaster of finding Marco safe.  Even Titan slumbers.  The sound of Eren pacing back and forth across the grey stones echoes unnervingly through the chamber now that not even Sasha and Connie chatter.  He pauses for a moment to consider Armin’s question. 

“Well…”  Eren puffs out a sigh.  “I didn’t expect to ever see him again.  I definitely didn’t expect him and Marco to be boning.  How’re you holding up on that front, by the way?”

Armin shrugs.  His heart clenches a bit in his chest, but he keeps his face a blank mask.  After a few seconds, Eren gathers that he isn’t going to say anything more than that, and though he seems dissatisfied, he drops the subject. 

Honestly?  Armin isn’t quite sure.  If he’s not mistaken, he doesn’t feel anything at all, aside from happiness for Marco and a wistful longing to be the one he looks at so adoringly.  Marco looks at Jean as if he’s a god walking the earth alongside him.  As much as Armin would like another man to look at him that way, he can’t force any toxic jealousy for either of them. 

Eren seems quite unsettled by the closeness between the two of them.  Armin suspects it might have something to do with his peculiar relationship with Jean before he vanished – but it _was_ an entire decade ago.   He can only pray Eren doesn’t open old wounds between the two of them and lets bygones be bygones.

“I just –”  Eren goes back to pacing like a mad bull.  “Why hasn’t he come back?  Berk is his _home._   We were all worried _sick_ about him and the pouncy asshole was frolicking with dragons the whole fuckin’ time.  Doesn’t that make you the _least bit_ mad?”

Armin shrugs.  “Marco says he’s happy here all by himself.  If that’s true, he probably didn’t need to come back – he never seemed all that happy on Berk, did he?”

Eren tugs distractedly at his sleeve, frowning down at his feet.  _That’s not enough._   Armin hurriedly goes to bolster his argument before Eren can blurt out a rash comment. 

“Besides, Marco said he’s uncomfortable with all of us here.  He really hasn’t replaced us at all, Eren, but he’s used to being by himself and we’ve got to respect that.  This is his new home.  The dragons are his one company.  And Jean is… different.”

It was the wrong thing to say.  The hotheaded Viking visibly bristles, fists clenching by his sides. 

“Different, my ass,” Eren mutters stubbornly.  “Bastard’s avoiding everyone, did you notice?  Fucker’s enjoying Marco doting on him… probably extorting poor Marco…”

“I don’t think Marco would let himself be extorted, Eren.”

“You don’t know that!” Eren exclaims.  “Maybe it’s… that syndrome, with the kidnappers?  Maybe that bastard’s just playing with Marco’s goddamned heart, fuck him, I’ll fight him before that happens.”

Armin puts down his bag with a frown.  “Why’re you making Jean out to be the villain, Eren?  His rudeness aside, he’s a good man.”

That marks the second mistake Armin’s made in talking to him.  Eren’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing like a hawk’s.  “He’s been rude to you?” Eren demands icily. 

“No ruder than you’ve been to him,” Armin says smoothly.  “Eren, what happened to just being glad he’s alive?  What changed?”

Eren offers no answer other than a grumpy huff and scowl.  He glowers up at the ceiling of ice and all its savage majesty as if he’s cursing the gods themselves – a practice that dimly registers as _dangerous_ in Armin’s book – and then looks away with a grumble. 

Sighing, Armin realizes resignedly that there is no quelling Eren.  Settling down onto his sleeping roll, he only hopes that nothing bad will come of it.

* * *

 

The heavy bag slides from Mina’s shoulder and lands with a wet smack on the ground beside her.  If the air had not already been so choked with foulness, the smell of the dead fish from inside it would’ve surely killed her. 

There’s no sign of the Boneknapper in the waste pit, but she didn’t really think there’d be.  She can’t have been the only one to have visited the waste site since, and the alarm hadn’t rang out, so the Boneknapper must’ve moved on before the next Viking tossed their junk.  Coming here had been more of a vague hope. 

The Terrible Terrors infesting the garbage mounds seem acutely interested in the fish.  They croak and scuttle around her, just out of reach, blinking bulbous eyes hungrily.  Even though there’s no sign of the Boneknapper, Mina is reluctant to surrender any fish to the pathetic dragons.  She’d given too much for these fish to go to scavengers. 

Berk’s seas are plentiful and the spoiled people upon the Isle have the luxury of only eating the largest, fattest fish.  The smaller morsels are given to the dragons.  Fishermen dump their hauls onto the deck and are more than happy to be rid of any fish to any creature, winged or not. 

Problem is, Mina doesn’t have any dragons, and nearly everyone on the island knows it.  Gleaning this sack full of minnows had been pulling teeth.  If the Terrors want a fish, they’ll have to go through her.

Mina briefly contemplates calling out for the Boneknapper.  She dismisses the idea a mere moment after it passes through her mind.  The cost of anyone hearing her is too high. 

 _What would I even shout – Boney?_ Mina snorts to herself. 

 _Perhaps the dragon needs a name_ , she thinks as she shoos away a Terror that’d crept too close.  The greedy bastard growls and scuttles back into the waste piles. 

But a name, she knows that gives this all a new meaning – a name means connection, a name means fondness.  If a named Boneknapper is to die by Erwin’s hands, it will break her heart far more than an unnamed one. 

_Still, though, it would help to be able to call it._

A slinking movement at the edge of the waste pit catches her eye.  Slow and eerie, the Boneknapper coils between the mounds of garbage, nothing but quietly clinking bones and soft, heavy thumps of footsteps. 

Mina’s heart lifts a little in her chest – _he’s survived!_   Erwin’s search parties have failed!  Perhaps there is hope for the poor, wretched thing. 

She notices as it approaches that the bones hang further off its gaunt frame, no longer the snug armor of a healthy Boneknapper.  It snarls at a pestering Terrible Terror, but even that sounds weak to Mina’s ears.  The hope in her chest extinguishes. 

_Has it not been eating?!_

Still a few yards off, the Boneknapper stops and heaves a few cautious breaths.  Its gaze flicks between the fish and Mina.  More careful than ever, it closes the last bit of distance slowly. 

Mina’s heart aches for the Boneknapper.  Its eyes gleam hungrily, as wide and as yellow as autumn moons.  They meet her gaze and hold it, steady and unblinking, as its head stretches out towards the bag of fish.  Beneath the shell of bone, its nostrils flare hungrily at the smell of food, making a muffled _whuff-whuff_ noise. 

“You can eat them, you know,” Mina murmurs.  “It’s all yours.  I won’t get in your way.”

The Boneknapper’s eyes flick hesitantly towards the fish.  Its head lowers down to the sack, but still, it pauses, as if waiting for a punishment to rain down.  None comes. 

“Go on.”  Mina smiles.  “Eat!”

At last, the Boneknapper’s guard drops enough to at least try to eat.  It dips its nose into the bag and gulps down the first fish.  A moment’s pause punctuates its cautious swallowing, and another suspicious glance towards Mina.  But again, nothing happens, and it can’t restrain itself any longer.  The dragon throws itself at the rest of the boon with downright abandon. 

A chuckle escapes Mina.  The dragon eats ravenously and sloppily, snapping up mouthfuls at a time, gulping and slurping the fish..  It must be starving, to eat quite so hungrily.  But still – it looks rather silly.  It pays her giggling no heed in its feeding frenzy. 

“I think I will name you,” she decides, smiling down at the Boneknapper.  At the sound of her voice, it fixes one curious eye on her, but doesn’t break in its feeding. 

“Yes, that’s right!” Mina says.  “I think I’m going to be fond of you no matter what I do, you’re surprisingly cute for a skeleton monster.  But a name befitting a cute skeleton monster – it stumps me.”

Mina studies the dragon up and down.  Her eyes linger on its shoulder – there are wounds like only those made by teeth and claws crisscrossing one side of its body, only seen now that the bones hang as loose as they do.  Crusty scabs seal over the healing wounds, but its naked hide will never be beautiful again. 

 _But, really,_ she thinks as the Boneknapper grunts and gurgles with its nose in the bag, _it’s not that beautiful a creature anyway._

A story of Marco’s surfaces in her memories.  Thoughts of her old teacher are always a double-edged sword; the sweetness of those days in training makes her smile, but poison lurks in each and every memory and in thinking of all the ways it’ll never be the same, now that he’s gone.  Her mouth tastes bitter. 

Before Marco had met stunning Orochi, the bond destined for him, he’d apparently been paired with a fat, lazy Hotburple.  The creature hadn’t been beautiful and it’d apparently been far from even pleasant, but Marco had loved it will all his heart.  Even as he’d told the story, a sad but incredibly fond smile for the dragon he’d lost had curled across his handsome face. 

Perhaps he’d been feeling the same sort of thing she does when she thinks of him – sweetness and poison. 

“Bulregard,” Mina says aloud, startling herself just a little with her own volume.  That had been the Hotburple’s name.

Crouching beside her dragon, she grins and rubs its forehead gently.  The bone isn’t as smooth as she thought it’d be, but warmer than it looks.  The Boneknapper fixes her with one inquisitive eye, gulping down the last of the fish quieter, as if to hear what she has to say. 

“That’s as good a name as any, isn’t it?”  Mina smiles proudly.  “Bulregard the Boneknapper.”  She touches its horn lightly.  “And what do you think?!  Do you like it?!  Bulregard?!”

The Boneknapper pauses, a fish still half in its mouth.  Its impassive gaze never wavers, stern and proud, but she can see the gears turning in its brain. 

“C’mon,” she urges it softly.  “I think it’s a wonderful name.”

After another moment of consideration, the Boneknapper grunts, unimpressed.  Looking back down at the bag, it sucks the fish into its mouth and gulps it down.  It sticks its nose into the sack for more, sniffing hungrily. 

Mina grins from ear to ear.  That’s as much of a commendation as she was hoping for.  She presses a gentle kiss to the bone of Bulregard’s forehead and wraps her arms gently around its neck, chanting its name in a singsongy voice into its ear. 

“ _Bulregard, Bulregard.  Bulregard my Boneknapper.”_

* * *

 

The initial lacquer of Jean’s miraculous revival wears off the next morning with a nearly explosive quarrel between him and Eren. 

The specifics were lost somewhere in Jean’s spat insults and Eren’s furious growling when the others and I tore them apart.  While it hadn’t quite come to blows, an all-out fight hadn’t been far.  Bared teeth and shaking fists, wild eyes and voices hoarse with adrenaline. 

Armin had calmed Eren down with a hand on his arm, whispering in a level voice.  As I’d held onto a kicking Jean as best I could, he kept his gaze calm and sternly talked Eren down.  They walked stiffly away, Armin still with an assuaging hand on Eren’s elbow. 

For some reason, that seemed to tick Jean off even more. 

I’d dragged him up to the isolated ledge where we keep the firewood, one higher than most and harder to spot from the ground.  Jean had marched around and skulked, but he’d both refused to talk about what happened and refused to leave without me.  And so after a while, I left him to stew and busied myself in the tedious chore of chopping firewood with only one arm. 

That was the early morning, what feels like ages ago now.  Neither Armin nor Eren has come up the winding little path to make amends, but Sasha and Connie have.  They marveled over the wonderful variety of dragons, inquired about how long I thought it’d be until I was healthy enough to return home, and hopped off on their merry way.  I don’t think they spotted Jean. 

I’m fairly certain Mikasa did, though. 

Her social graces are a bit more present, though.  Not only that, but I think she understands the silences like no one else could.  The silences that Jean and I share – a simple quiet other than the purring of our dragons and the splitting of wood. 

Her collected smile and reserved affection had been indescribably refreshing.  With only a quiet comment about how much she missed me, a powerful punch of affection, she’d gathered the firewood she came for and trotted down the path, bound for Jean’s campfire.  If I were to love a woman, I think my heart would belong to Mikasa. 

But, as it is, my heart already belongs to another. 

Not for the first time, I hope he holds it as fondly as I give it up to him. 

Orochi stirs sleepily in the foliage as I pass him to stack firewood against the cavern wall.  His eye opens to a slit, pupil dilated from slumber.  He rumbles affectionately and lets his eye fall closed again. 

I wonder if maybe Jean’s fallen asleep, waiting for me to finish up.  There isn’t a way to be sure, not without disturbing a certainly sleeping Eydis, which isn’t something I want to do.  The magnificent dragon looks far too cute, her jaw hanging open, drool hitting the stone beneath her. 

Easing onto my haunches beside Orochi, I gaze adoringly at our two sleepy dragons and out at all the other dragons I’ve begun to accept as my own.  They peacefully flutter from perch to perch, some fat and lazy, others springy and playful.  I spy Sasha and Connie running along a seam in the wall after a few of the baby Scuttleclaws and grin from ear to ear. 

I turn to mention it to Jean, get as far as opening my mouth, before remembering he’s retreated inside of an Eydis cocoon.  Feeling only slightly disillusioned, slightly alone, I gaze back out over the scene. 

Truth be told, I am a little… worried.  In no world had I expected Jean and the others to get along swimmingly, but his strange close-mouthedness is worrying.  I gnaw nervously at the inside of my cheek and shift my weight this way and that. 

I want to reach out to him, to grab his hand and tell him that I’ll never leave his side, to reassure him that everything he fears may happen won’t – but the silence hangs like the blade of an executioner over my neck.  For the first time since we first met, I’m uncomfortable with the silence.  It should be a massive red flag.  But I swallow down my fears and convince myself that I’m imagining it. 

 _Jean cares for you,_ I scold myself, picking at my boot absentmindedly.  _He just needs time.  There’s not a chance he’ll leave you alone, not after all that’s happened._

Strange, then, that I feel so lonely now. 

“Marco!”  The sound of Armin’s voice tears me from my reverie.  Eydis wakes up with a jolt, blinking groggily like a grumpy old man, but Orochi doesn’t so much as twitch. 

“Armin!”  He’s trundling awkwardly up the narrow trail, holding a scroll gingerly in one hand.  “How are you?!”

“I’m – I’m good, Marco.”  He smiles genuinely, coming to a stop at the end of the trail to breathe.  “I’ve, ah – we haven’t – we haven’t had… a chance to talk, have we?”

“No, we haven’t.”  I smile warmly, patting the stone beside me.  “Come, Armin, talk to me!  I’m feeling wistful for company, anyhow.”

I really, really hope Jean slept through me saying that.  I also really hope I didn’t wince as visibly as I think I might’ve.  Armin doesn’t do anything but beam, though, beam and plop down happily beside me.  He scoots up against my side, pressing our arms together for warmth more than anything.  The scroll is set down beside him and promptly forgotten. 

“So, tell me, Armin, what’ve I missed?” I ask, bumping our shoulders together.  “Have either of my kids found the dragon of their dreams?”

He grins widely.  “Not yet, no.”

“Good!”  I nudge him playfully with my stump, laughing warmly.  “Ah, sorry if that sounds at all bitter, it’s just – you know me.”

“You want to be there.”  Armin rolls his eyes, grinning massively.  “Marco, how could I not know you?  I’m pretty sure all of Berk knows about that.  Remember that time you started crying because Samuel bonded when you were out sick?”

“Sh-shush, don’t be mean,” I mutter.  “I’m glad that I didn’t miss anything, though.  Ymir said my siblings are holding up okay, and my mum, too – they are, right?”

“Yeah, well.”  He shrugs.  “I won’t lie, it’s been hard for them.”  His voice becomes very quiet, eyes far off.  “They… the twins… your mom… they lost you a second time, Marco.  I hadn’t seen Belina smile for days.”

“Oh.”  My voice sounds very small to my own ears, and the screeching of the dragons suddenly seems less peaceful.  The throb of homesickness in my chest feels more painful than any other. 

“A-and the others?”  I lift my head and swallow down the lump in my throat, not yet trusting myself with meeting his gaze.  “How are – how are the little ones?”

“Soren is… very moody.  He’s bottling it all up.  It’s not at all healthy, but… Marco, you know he looked at you like the sun.  He keeps getting in trouble for stupid, stupid reasons.”

“Oh, Sorri.”  I close my eyes and lean backwards, smiling brittly.  The only child out of us all to sport a pair of brilliant blue eyes, he’s also the only one to have me and my mother’s freckles.  He reminds me in a lot of ways of Eren – headstrong and righteous, but with a good, gentle hand when dealing with dragons.  I’ve always been fond of him as well. 

“I don’t think it’s quite hit little Josie yet,” Armin says tentatively – which makes sense that it wouldn’t, she’s only four.  “She was – more reserved, I think.  But more out of… confusion.  Emilio burst into tears when she asked where you were after we burned your pyre.”

“Poor Josie.”  A pang of longing hits me so hard in the gut, my vision blurs with tears – more than anything, _anything,_ I want to be sat before my own fire, sore from cutting _our_ firewood, laughing with my mother and fumbling my way around a braid in my little girl’s hair.  My fists clenches lethally around a poor fern, uprooting it from the ground. 

“Shit, this is all my fault,” I say guiltily.  “I’ve left them all alone… they think I’m dead…”

“Hey, Marco…”  Armin’s hand uncertainly goes to my shoulder.  “Hey, you can’t possibly blame this on yourself.  You… can’t.”

“And why not?”

“Because it’s the trappers’ fault, not yours.”  He smiles winningly, eyes shining.  “And besides, you’re coming home.  I have a letter here” – he grabs the forgotten scroll – “that I’m going to send to Erwin to announce that we found you.  So they know that, no matter how long we have to wait here for you to be completely healed, you _are_ alive.”

“That’s – oh, Thor’s whiskers, Armin, that’s a great idea,” I whisper, overwhelmingly grateful.  But there’s a touch of hesitance in my voice, and he must hear it, for he frowns. 

“I’m only sending it if it’s okay with you,” he says with a sunny smile.  “It’s completely up to you, Marco.  I haven’t even told anyone else about it, so – don’t worry about that aspect.”

“Armin, have I ever told you that you are the smartest person I’ve ever met?” I say solemnly despite the massive grin I can’t clear from my face.  “You are the smartest.  And the kindest.  Thank you.  Thank you a million times over for your consideration.”

He nudges me, cheeks flushing bright red.  “Flatterer.  You’re taken, you can’t do… stuff like that.”

I frown and furrow my brow, good mood dashed.  “Stuff like what?”

“Stuff like… oh, never mind.”  I notice that his eyes linger for just a second on the score of hickeys Jean left yesterday on my neck, and it clicks.  _Oh, shit, he thought I was flirting._ Before I can apologize, Armin rushes onto the next order of business, still flushed pink. 

“I actually came up here looking for Jean.”  Armin shakes his head slowly.  “I haven’t been able to find him anywhere since that fiasco this morning, and neither has Eren.  Don’t tell Jean, but the big dork wants to apologize, so he’s been helping me look.  Do you know where he is?”

A big grin spreads over my face.  Wordlessly, I gesture towards the stalactites above. 

Armin’s brow furrows.  His lips part in a confused O, and, after a second, he follows my finger and looks up.  Immediately, he gasps with shock and jumps backwards as if he’d been shot.  Scrambling upwards, he babbles incoherently, and I only grin. 

Jean watches in solemn silence, now visible between the folds of Eydis’ wings.  She hangs upside down from the stalactites, strong talons gripping the stones and powerful wings cradling Jean.  He looks so handsome, clutched against her breast and half-bathed in shadows that accentuate the lovely color of his eyes.  A softer smile that has absolutely nothing to do with the stuttering child beside me steals over my face. 

After a moment of impassively watching Armin try to form a complete sentence, Jean glances at me in exasperation.  He must see the absolute adoration I feel in my heart across my face, because he freezes when our eyes meet.  A pink blush rises to his cheeks.  Smiling shyly, he glances away coyly, hands fiddling with his gloves almost juvenilely. 

“J-Jean!” Armin at last manages, scarlet in color.  “I didn’t see – have you been up there this whole time?!”

He ducks his head in an awkward nod.  Prompted by a tap of Jean’s hand, Eydis sets him gingerly against the stone.  He slides off her wing and lands a bit unsteadily, not knowing quite how to act yet without a staff, and then slinks to my side.  His arm winds slowly around my waist, almost like he’s making a show of it. 

I press a gentle kiss to his temple.  “Hello, Dragon, did you have a nice nap?”

“Mmmmm.”  He leans into me and lifts his face, silently asking for more kisses.  “Haven’t been sleeping.”

“Maybe not recently.”  I kiss across his warm temple, towards the corner of his eyes.  “But you can’t tell me you’ve been awake this entire time.”

“Hmmm, you caught me,” Jean hums happily.  “Had good dreams, though.”

“What of, love?” 

“Kisses.  Guess who from.”

I chuckle lowly, kissing his fluttering eyelids tenderly, as if a wrong move may break him. 

“I, uh.”  Armin’s awkward cough disrupts the mood just as I get to his eye’s inner corner.  It’s incredibly difficult not to throw him a rude glance, and I’m not completely certain that Jean disdains when I pull back. 

“S-sorry,” he stutters, somehow getting redder.  _Yeah, Jean definitely is glaring at him._ I peck a stern kiss to his forehead without looking at him, knowing he’ll get the message in it.  Grumbling, Jean lets his head rest impatiently on my shoulder. 

“Don’t worry about it.”  I smile reassuringly.  “He’s a bit cranky, but pretty harmless, mostly.  What is it you need of Jean?”

“Jean, I was just wondering, if, uh.”  Armin scratches self-consciously at the back of his head.  “I thought I should ask you if you wanted me to announce that we found you as well as Marco.  I don’t have to mention you if you don’t want me to.”

My chest explodes with newfound warmth for Armin’s thoughtfulness.  I look eagerly down at Jean to see him blinking in shock.  He doesn’t seem able to comprehend what Armin’s just said, brow furrowed and lips parting. 

Armin takes his shock poorly, fidgeting with the scroll.  “I noticed that you seem – comfy, here, alone.  And – I can understand why you’d want to get away… even if Eren can’t.  So I thought I’d offer the chance for you to… at least… _sort of_ continue this… lifestyle.  The people of Berk never have to know you’re alive, at least from this letter.”  He laughs nervously.  “Connie and Sasha might talk, but –”

“They can be reprimanded,” I say darkly.  Armin blinks at me in surprise, faltering. 

“Uh, right, right.”  He nods a few times.  “So, Jean – would you like me to announce that we’ve found you?  Or would you like to remain anonymous?  I can just forget to mention you all together, if that’s what you’d like.”

“Choose whatever will be easiest for you, Dragon,” I urge with my best supportive smile.  “I’m fine with whatever you decide.”

That’s a bit of a lie.  I want to take him to my island and show him off to my mother, come back to our house and find him cooking with my siblings.  I want him to see my dragons, my pupils, my friends.  I want to show him my home as he’s shown me his. 

But at the end of the day, I want him to be happy more than all of that.  And if never moving from his idyllic world is what makes him happy, then so be it. 

“I…”  There is hesitance written in the tense line of his shoulders.  He worries his lip, already bitten and chapped, between his teeth.  I fret that, with all Armin’s good intentions, this might be too much, too soon, too suddenly proposed for Jean to handle – I smooth my palm in calming circles along his shoulders, but it’s hard to tell how much it helps. 

At last, Jean nods curtly.  “Yes.  Yes, tell them.”

In a surge of joy, I sweep him off his feet and crush our lips together in a fervent kiss.  My arm trembles with the effort of holding his weight after hours of labor, but I hardly notice.  It takes him a moment to catch up, but when he does, he giggles and slips his tongue between my lips with gusto.  As our kiss deepens, Armin clears his throat. 

Jean whips his head around, eyes narrowed like a snake’s.  “What?” he spits. 

Armin shuffles his feet and mutters, “Tell them… what?”

I throw my head back with a laugh and set Jean back on his feet.  “He’s right, Jean – it wasn’t a yes or no question.”

He harrumphs grumpily, crossing his arms over his chest.  I flick his arm reprimandingly. 

“That’s no way to be, Jean,” I chastise.  “There’ll be plenty of time for more tonight.”

Armin makes a strangled squeaking sound.  I don’t miss the smug look Jean throws his way.  I ignore both of them, plowing onwards. 

“Jean, maybe you could help Armin pick out what you’re going to say in the letter?  That way there’s no confusion or anything.  You can write just as much as you want, Jean – it’d be good for you.”

Eyes still narrowed dangerously, Jean nods.  It’s a slow, calculated movement, stiff and sly, betraying an ulterior motive I can’t quite put my finger on.  Eyeing him suspiciously, I hope that it’s only in my mind.  Surely he won’t whip up any trouble. 

Just in case, maybe I ought to look over their shoulders. 

A loud, rejoicing whoop from behind me throws a bit of wrench in that idea.  A heavy, freckled arm slings over my shoulder, smacking me hard across the arm, and Ymir’s grinning face appears beside me. 

“There ya are, ya fuckin’ Changewing, been lookin’ everywhere for ya!” she says.  “Why’re ya tucked up here, ya’ve got a whole fuckin’ cave system ‘nd a shitton of them dragons ya like tah play with, eh?”

“Hey, Ymir,” I laugh, clasping the hand thrown over my shoulder.  “Your accent’s gotten stronger.  The firewood needed chopping, that’s why I was up here.”

Ymir frowns.  “’Nd you did it, with yar funny arm?  Shit, Marco, if I was a three-finned turtle, I’d get every’un else tah do my work – Eren probably needed it, boy’s hovering like a goddamned storm cloud over Odin’s Bathtub.”

“Is he still upset?” Armin asks, sounding worried. 

“No more than usual,” Ymir chuckles.  “His dragon calmed him down, boy loves that ol’ thing, but this woulda worked too.”

I cast a quick glance to Jean, recalling the story of the Nightmare he tried so hard to win over, but he’s strangely without reaction other than a smile aimed up at Eydis, hanging still from the ceiling. 

“How’re you liking this place, Ymir?” I ask, changing the subject.  “Better than a stale old pub, isn’t it?”

“Ya say that,” she says solemnly, “but I don’ see no fancy girls in frilly dresses dancin’ on tables.  But it’s alright.  Nice ‘nd roomy, be a good smuggler’s cove.” 

“It’s not going to be a smuggler’s cove,” Jean says flatly. 

She winks.  “If that ever changes, ya know who tah ask for.  But yeah, it’s alright.  Not my style, but alright.”

I smile at Jean.  “That’s a glowing commendation from Ymir.”

“Shut the fuck up, ya freckled fuck,” she mumbles, tousling my hair.  “Goddamn, ya’ve turned against me in these brief weeks we’ve been parted.  I’ll remember the past fondly.”

I move my eyes up to the ceiling in exasperation, accidentally meeting Eydis’ incredulous gaze.  I roll my eyes, and, after a moment of consideration, she copies me with a little circle of motion.  It makes me laugh, just a little. 

“What’re you here for, Ymir?” I sigh in feigned weariness, unable to hide the smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. 

“Is it such a crime tah want tah spend some time with my back-from-the-goddamned-dead coz?” she cries in mock outrage.  “I wanna talk tah ya, Bodt.  Berk’s been awful glum without yar smile.”  She glances at me, and her expression softens marginally.  “Aye, there’s the one.”

“He has a good smile,” Jean says softly, drawing all eyes to him.  A blush colors his cheeks, and he ducks his head down and out of sight. 

Ymir throws her head back in a bark of wolfish laughter.  “This one’s got it bad, Marco!”

“Sh-shut up,” Jean mumbles, the tips of his ears turning pink. 

“What’re ya boys up tah, anyway?” Ymir says, eyeing the scroll Armin brandishes in one hand.  “Somethin’ ya shouldn’t be tellin’ me ‘bout?”

“Umm, yeah, sorry, Ymir,” Armin says with a panicky smile. 

She waves a dismissive hand.  “Don’t care enuff about yar private affairs tah stick my nose where it don’t belong, gnome.  Ya wouldn’t mind if I stole Marco away for a lil’ chat, though, would ya?”

“I –”  Armin shrugs.  “Up to Jean.”

 “Oh, so I get no say in where I’m going?”

“A-and Marco!”

“I’m only kidding, Armin.  Jean, are you okay with me going off with Ymir?”

And at this, Ymir frowns – only for half a second, only flashing over her face quickly, but before it fades away, it’s deep and dark.  Even as the frown falls away, I sense an imperceptible change in her mood, like the drop in temperature before a storm.  My stomach pangs uneasily, but as she musters her snarky grin, I force myself to disregard it. 

Wrinkling his nose, Jean shoots Ymir a peeved glance.  But he nods wordlessly towards me with a hesitant little half-smile.  I can tell he’s not completely in his comfort zone – his fingers knot together nervously, his eyes dart from person to person like a cornered rat’s – but he’ll have to get used to a certain level of discomfort if we’re going to foster the gang. 

“Alright, Ymir, you’ve got your way.”  I hit her elbow hard enough for it to buckle and slip out of her iron grip.  She throws a playful punch after me, but I easily sidestep, shooting her a shit-eating grin over my shoulder. 

“You’ve gotten sloppy, in the time that I’ve been away.”  My smile widens.  “Maybe you’re getting too old.”

“Ohhhh, ya little shit, I’ll show ya too old.”  Eyes gleaming wickedly, Ymir makes a show of cracking her knuckles.  “Go on, then.”

I frown.  “What do you mean, go on?”

She tips her head towards the trail, smiling evilly.  “Ya’ve got about a five second headstart before I’m comin’ after ya.  If I were you, I’d get tah steppin’.”

My heart drops to my boots.  Spitting out a curse, I whirl around and sprint away as fast as I can.

* * *

 

Armin nods curtly and rolls back from the letter, so far pleased with his handiwork.  “Okay, let me read out loud what we have so far.”

His companion nods jerkily.  Jean has a tendency to move in a way that doesn’t quite seem connected, a way that seems exaggerated and strange, like a man who’s never actually seen a gesticulation of any kind but read about them in novels, a mimicry of natural movement.  By now, Armin’s accepted it as part of Jean’s repertoire of strangeness. 

Clearing his throat, Armin begins to read the paper in an official sort of tone. 

 _“Marco and all of us are now under the protection of Jean Kirschtein and his dragon Eydis, the same Jean Kirschtein we thought was lost many years ago._ ”

Armin glances hesitantly at Jean – the dragon rider nods jerkily again, flicking a hand out in a rough gesture to continue.  

“ _He has, in an act of good will, he has sheltered us and provided us with supplies.  Kirschtein has made it clear he asks nothing in return but forgiveness for so long a silence._ ”

Jean hums, low and gravelly.  “Good.”

“Okay, that’s just about it,” Armin says, lifting his quill up again, “except for one last thing.”  He rests the feathery tip on his lips and looks up through his lashes at Jean.  “We’ve just got to touch on whether or not you want to return… return to _Berk_.”

The words _return home_ had almost escaped him – something tells Armin that particular wording wouldn’t be appreciated in his present company.  He can respect that, of course, as strange as the idea is to him. 

Jean’s fists curl by his sides.  There is a distinctive panicked look about him – a look of being trapped, being forced.  A tremor runs through his arms, and his wide eyes are glassy.  He swallows with blatant difficulty and lifts his gaze weakly to Armin’s, eyes filled with terrified finality. 

“Tell them.”  Jean’s voice wavers, and he breathes deeply to calm himself.  “Tell them I will return.  Return to Berk.”

Cautiously, Armin sets the quill back to the ground.  He can’t quite put his finger on it, he can’t ever really with Jean, but something is bothering the loner. 

“Are you sure?” he asks tentatively. 

Jean squares his shoulders, but it looks more like a child trying on their father’s armor for the first time than any convincing display.  Jaw set, he stubbornly insists, “It’s what Marco wants.  Tell them.”

 _That… doesn’t sound very Marco to me._ Brow furrowed, Armin chews on his lip and glances sideways at Jean. 

“Jean, I hope you don’t mind me saying so” – Armin reaches over and places a gentle hand on Jean’s arm – “but I think Marco wants you to do whatever makes you happy.”

The impact of his words is instantaneous.  Jean bristles furiously, a fierce light burning in his eyes more like that of a wild dragon than of a man.  His fists clench by his sides, but not with nerves.  Suddenly, the man is every bit as imposing as his ferocious dragon. 

“You know _nothing_ ,” Jean spits.  “You know _nothing_ about Marco.”

 _I know more than you do,_ a traitorous voice whispers in the back of Armin’s brain. 

 _Shhh, don’t piss him off more,_ whispers every other part of his brain. 

“Peace, Jean,” Armin laughs nervously, spreading his hands wide.  “I just – I thought that maybe you should have some more reason behind wanting to go to Berk than what Marco wants.  I was wrong, I’m sorry.”

Jean glares regally down his nose, his lip curling with the threat of a snarl.  Behind the ferocity in his eyes, there’s something else in his expression, buried beneath the façade of fury – Armin is fascinated immediately.  The suspicious flick of his eyes, the nervous twitch of his thumb, the disgust he regards Armin with now – _jealousy?_

“I have plenty of reason to go to Berk,” Jean all but snarls, and Armin’s eyes widen.  _He’s jealous, alright, but of what?_

“O-okay,” Armin stammers, his thoughts still racing, still far from the task at hand.  “How about – _whenever Marco is fit to return, Jean will fly with us to visit his homeland_?”

“Not ‘homeland’,” Jean grunts.  His glare is still hot and vicious. 

“How about – _our island_?” Armin suggests instead.  After a moment of consideration, staring off into the ferns, Jean nods a few times.  Still distracted by the curious air of animosity, Armin plucks up the quill and wets it slowly in ink, thinking all the while. 

There is a chance – a small chance, but a chance all the same – that Jean’s picked up on his… his _admiration_ of Marco.  And Eren’s certainly right that this Jean, the one in front of him, isn’t the Jean he knew as a child.  If Jean _has_ picked up on his crush, the thought of Marco and Armin alone together might make him… possessive. 

Which isn’t healthy.  But maybe there’s another reason behind it.  Armin shouldn’t be so quick to pass judgement. 

“Why else do you want to return?” Armin asks casually, swirling the tip of the feather against his chin. 

“My reasons are my own,” Jean says vaguely. 

Armin smiles up at him.  “It’s okay, I won’t tell anybody.”

His hesitation lasts a long beat – then his shoulders slump, and the fight fades from his eyes.  He looks forlornly down at his hands and watches them in silence, like a kicked puppy. 

“I heard you talking,” he says quietly.  “About.  His family.  I did not know.  Any of his siblings’ names.  And they… they seem…”  Jean pushes his hair out of his face distractedly, shaking his head.  “So important to him.”

“Oh.”  Armin’s heart melts – Jean might be jealous of him, but not in the way he’d expected.  “Oh, Jean.” 

With a hint of ferocity, Jean growls, “Don’t pity me!”

“I’m not.”  He is.  “Okay, Jean, I’ll – I’ll finish up the letter.  You can go if you wish.”

He grunts and stands sinuously.  The grunt must be a goodbye for he doesn’t spare much else to Armin.  As quietly as a wild animal, he slips away and disappears around a bend in the path. 

His dragon, Eydis, follows elegantly after him.  She drops almost soundlessly to the stone and glances at him only briefly.  In that small moment, Armin’s breath is stolen by her majesty and poise.  But she looks away disinterestedly in the direction of Jean, and glides behind him.  Armin watches her until the beautiful plumed tip of her tail curls around the corner after her rider, and they are gone. 

Now all alone save the letter and the pile of firewood Marco chopped, Armin looks down at the paper scroll resting on the rock.  Strangely, he’s struck with indecision.  He knows that Jean doesn’t have any ill-will, at least not directly, but…

Armin is reluctant to make any promises to Berk he can’t keep. 

Jean and Eren already quarreled this morning – not even a full day after the old friends’ reunion.  As much as he’d love to believe that Jean will follow Marco to Berk, that he’ll follow him _home_ … he isn’t so convinced.  Not yet, anyway. 

Armin stares uncertainly down at the piece of paper, awaiting to be finished and signed and sent by dragon.  He must choose now.  And, chewing on his lower lip, heart heavy, he reaches his decision.

* * *

 

There are members of her sect in Dreki Kló, but they’re unlike anyone she’s come across before. 

The Brotherhood’s establishment on the mainland had been ruled with an iron fist.  There was no room for disobedience or disrespect, no room for those who did not keep their heads down and did as they were told.  It is a cruel, grueling existence, the life of a low Titan lackey, and one Annie does not envy.  But they were powerful, and they were efficient – when she gave them an order, they did as they were told, no questions asked, and immediately. 

This new brand of slacking mercenaries and spies loosely organized beneath the Titan name is a complete shock. 

They scurry about like rats in gutters, snickering and smiling, pouring spiders down people’s backs and stabbing pregnant women in their bellies.  They have no devotion to anything but Death, Mischief, and Coin.  The leader only ever observes their actions with a revolting sort of smile.  Her position of command holds no weight amongst them – when she orders them to tell her how to get to Berk, they bare their shiny teeth in exaggerated laughter and slip into the shadows. 

There is a name that they do respect. 

It is a name Annie has heard before, but only in dank taverns and quiet tunnels, whispered as a warning or spat out with a threat.  To speak it and be heard by the Brotherhood is high treason and punished by death, but of course that only makes men speak of it more.  Some with hope, some with hate, some with fear. 

The Ravager of the North. 

Annie feels with a terrible certainty that she ran into the Ravager at the dock, and that the Ravager will remember her face.  How much of the Ravager’s bloody past is urban legend and how much is cold, hard truth, Annie can only speculate.  Speculate and fear. 

A clock hangs over Annie’s head, timing the fall of an executioner’s blade.  But she can’t hear it ticking, nor see the numbers on its face.  She only knows that her time is running out, far too quickly, and if she doesn’t find a way out of her situation soon, she’s certain to die. 

Annie knows there is something here for her.  She _knows_ it, like she knows the beat of her heart.  It is only a matter of finding it, and then of finding Berk. 

And now, she is sure she’s caught the scent. 

“So it’s Berk you want, eh?” says the cheerful barmaid of the Dancing Deathsong.  “Seems like a lot’s happening in Berk recently!  We’ve had a lot of traffic here from that quaint little island.”

Annie tries not to arch an eyebrow – the woman is bristling with daggers between the folds of her dress, and needles poke through the fabric on her ass and breast, perhaps a trap for anyone looking to cop a feel.  To hear her call anything quaint is odd, much less an organization of fierce Viking warriors. 

“What do you mean?” Annie asks levelly.  “Have there been others?”

“Not askin’ _for_ Berk,” the woman says thoughtfully, cleaning out a glass, “but from it, for sure.  Lovely lady came in here from Berk, she was brilliant with her voice.  Are you lookin’ for the lost boy, too?”

“The lost boy is dead.”

The woman’s smile drops.  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, such a shame.  I doubt the Ravager’s going to be happy about that!” 

Annie blanches from hearing the Ravager’s name dropped so casually in conversation.  The barmaid takes no notice, scrubbing out the beer glass. 

“I’d hate to be the one that killed the Ravager’s cousin!  For everyone’s sake, I hope it _was_ an accident!  Always been a bit frightening, that Ravager.  She and the rest of the Berk gang stopped in looking for him.”

Annie becomes aware that someone is watching her – she doesn’t know who, not yet, and it might very well be many someones in a port as treacherous as this.  She ignores the chill creeping up her spine and leans forward on her bar stool, narrowing her eyes. 

“The Ravager’s cousin, you say?” Annie whispers, an icy fist closing around her heart.  “He was the Ravager’s cousin?”

“Aye.”  The barmaid nods, looking slightly taken aback.  “The Berkians came in here askin’ about him and his Night Fury, bloody thing got him into trouble with some trappers, gossip says.  Didn’t know the poor boy got himself killed – where didja hear that?”

“Around,” Annie says vaguely.  “When the warriors of Berk were here – who did they talk to?”

The barmaid eyes her suspiciously.  “‘Around’, you say.  I hear most every rumor that comes through this town, blondie.  Where’d you really hear that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Annie says dismissively.  “Who did they talk to?”

“I ain’t servin’ no one that killed the Ravager’s cousin, blondie,” the barmaid says fiercely.  “Where’d you hear that rumor?”

Annie sighs through her nose.  “I was a prisoner alongside him,” she lies.  “I want to retrace the Ravager’s steps so I can catch up to her before his killers do.”

This seems to satisfy the barmaid, if make her a bit curious.  She nods and leans backwards, returning happily to her immaculate glasses. 

“Well, the party went everywhere, explored the whole damn port,” she says thoughtfully.  “It’d take forever to track down all the spots they hit.  Don’t think you could.  A couple of ‘em were really good at covering their tracks – and there are groups that’ll breathe down your spine if you pry too much, so be careful.”

“They know me,” Annie says brusquely.  “What can you tell me?”

The barmaid leans forward, a wicked glint in her eyes.  “I can tell you that the Ravager went to one stall, and one stall only.”

Annie grips her beer glass tighter.  “Who?” she demands icily. 

Rolling back on her heels, the barmaid smirks nastily and tips her head to the corner of the tavern.  Annie turns around in her stool and follows the barmaid’s gaze –

On the other side of the room sits a girl with pretty blue eyes, staring back at her.

* * *

 

A dearly-missed sense of home fills me as Ymir plops comfortably down on the stone as if it were my family room’s floor.  The ground of dank, green-tinged cavern is far from the warm mouth of a burning hearth, but I’ve always believed it’s the people that make a home, not the floorboards. 

As I sink down beside her, freshly nostalgic, Fucknut stirs with a great, heaving effort, lifting her head.  The dragon’s little nostrils puffs happily at my scent.  Her tiny eyes open and she makes a happy squealy noise.

“Aye, yes, that’s Marco,” Ymir hushes, rolling her eyes as her dragon inches closer to me like a slug, huffing like an overexcited beagle.  “Fuckin’ Freyr, ya’d do good tah pet ‘er, she’s not gonna calm down until ya do, fucker.” 

“Do you hear the way she talks about you?” I coo, taking the Rumblehorn’s big, bony head into my lap, rubbing firmly against its beetle-like plating.  “She’s so mean, doesn’t understand, you’re just a happy baby, aren’t you?”

Fucknut’s tail drags excitedly back and forth, her feet do a little dance on the stone.  Growling happily, she rises up only for a second.  My eyes widen. 

“Shit, no, Fucknut, no –”

It’s too late – the hulking dragon smashes into my midsection with the force of a battering ram.  My chest explodes in pain.  With an agonized yelp, I fall onto my back, clutching the point of impact. 

“Look at that!” Ymir cackles gleefully. “Fucknut’s missed ya too!”

“Oh, my gods, Fucknut,” I groan, clutching my ribs.  I try to fix her with a glare, but she’s already fallen back asleep.  Dismayed, I look up at Ymir. 

“Ain’t that just the way,” she says, slapping the dragon hard across the shoulder.  Fucknut doesn’t even stir.  Chuckling affectionately, she offers me a hand and pulls me back upright. 

“Thanks,” I mumble, feigning an annoyed glare to Fucknut. 

She waves aside my gratitude, leaning forward and grinning.  “How’ve ya been, though, Marco?  We haven’t had a chance tah talk, really talk, about everything that’s been happenin’.”

“You’ve only been here for a few hours, Ymir,” I laugh, poking her knee through the slats of her armor. 

She scowls and swats my hand away.  “Yeah, and ya’ve been hiding away with your new li’l manfriend.”  She juts her lower lip out, fixing me with a pouty skulk.  “Ya make a girl feel like shit, y’know.  Came all this way tah be ignored.”

 _Oh, Odin._ I hadn’t even thought about how the gang must’ve felt – I’ve been cooped up with Jean all day, hiding from them.  I groan and hold my head in my hand, shaking it back and forth. 

“Fuck, Ymir,” I sigh, rubbing at the bridge of my nose, “I’m sorry, Jean was throwing a fit, and I – I let you down.”

“I ain’t mad at ya, don’t sniffle,” she chuckles awkwardly, a chord of seriousness beneath her flippancy.  “But he ain’t the only selfish wuss ya gottah deal with, y’know.  I ain’t even it, really.  Don’t forget that, aight?”

“Yeah, I – I’ll remember that.”  I let my hand fall away and back into my lap.  My heart still feels heavy with guilt, like a heavy stone pulling me down towards the floor, but I try my hardest to sit up straight and square my shoulders. 

“I’m here now, though,” I point out.  A hint of warmth returns to my chest at her crooked grin. 

 “That ya are,” she says, eyes twinkling.  “Tell me, how ya been, boy?  What’ve ya been up tah while yar poor ribs are healin’, eh?  Ya’ve been gone for ages ‘nd I haven’t got a fuckin’ clue what ya’ve been up to.”

I hum, propping my arm up behind me and staring up at the ceiling to think – I haven’t been up to that much, really. 

I tell her, “Not a whole lot to do other than sleep.  I’ve been taking care of the dragons here, mostly – there’s chores and things that need to be done, but Jean does most of them himself.”  I stifle a chuckle.  “I don’t think I do them good enough for him.  He doesn’t believe me when I say I do the cleaning at home, I don’t reckon.”

Ymir guffaws, slapping her knee.  She leans forward, eyes glinting.  “Well, who taught ya tah fold yar britches?”

I roll my eyes up to the sky.  “You did, Ymir.”

“An’ who is infamous for havin’ fuckin’ awful laundrey?!”  Laughing, she smacks our shoulders together.  “This bitch right ‘ere is, ya bastard!  I trust Jeanbo on this ‘un, Marco.”

I shrug helplessly, my cheeks feeling warm.  “Okay, _maybe_ my clothing skills are a bit subpar…”

“Maybe, he says.”

“Oi!  I might not be a perfect housewife, but I was trying to help!  There’s not much else to do here!”

“Nothing to do but Jean,” she says with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. 

“Ymir!” I gasp, smacking her. 

“I bet that’s why he wanted ya away from the chores, eh?”  She winks.  “Savin’ yar strength.”

“Noooo,” I moan, covering only one of my ears with my hand, ducking my head between my knees.  “I’ve had enoooough, I want to goooo, I’m leaving –”

“No, you ain’t,” she chuckles, slamming her shoulder against mine.  I rock backwards with the force of it – Ymir’s always had a mean punch, and a meaner shoulder nudge.  I’m used to it, after all these years. 

I sit back up with a grin, rolling my eyes.  “You’re ridiculous, Ymir.  A lewd cow.”

“And yar a blushing virgin,” Ymir guffaws, shaking her head in disbelief.  “Ya’ve never been so touchy with yar past squeezy mates.  Didn’t know ya’d start squirming, shit.”

“Yeah, well.”  I stare distantly at Fucknut, peacefully sleeping beside us.  “It’s… _different_ , with Jean.  He’s… different.”

She looks sharply sideways at me, eyes narrowing into a wolf’s steely glare.  The unnerving gleam in her eyes make it seem as though she’s staring straight through me – as if my thoughts are a book for her to peruse, as if there’s words written across my face only she can read.  It’s a look I’ve seen before, but not often. 

Her brow creases, eyes flashing with concern.  Biting her lip, I’d say that Ymir looks almost – _worried_. 

But she doesn’t give me a single moment to ponder over it. 

“You and Jeanny boy, then?” she says with a chuckle.  “For real?  It ain’t an elaborate prank o’ nothing, right, ‘cos then I’ll steal yar other arm and feed it tah Fucknut.”

“She wouldn’t eat it, would you?”  I stroke her horn affectionately, smiling down at the good old girl.  Ymir grins as well, but she obviously is still waiting for an answer. 

“And yeah – I mean… yeah.”  I laugh awkwardly and scratch at the back of my neck, my thoughts racing and tripping up the words as they leave my mouth.  “He… he has my heart, Ymir; I am his.  There’s no one I’d rather be with.”

I lift my head and square my shoulders, fixing on a distant point.  A sense of pride at being the noble Jean Kirschtein’s fills my chest with a warm glow.  To myself more than her, I repeat, “I am his.”

Ymir snorts.  “Well, shit, fuck me sideways with a broomhandle, didn’t think I’d see the day.  Marco head over fuckin’ heels like a fuckin’ teenager.”

She whistles and shakes her head, grinning from ear to ear. 

“H-hey, cut that out.”  I bump our shoulders together.  “I’m being serious, y’know.”

“I know ya are, sweetheart, humor’s just my default,” she says. 

“Humor,” I say.

“Hush, you,” she says, rolling her eyes.  “Shit, my Marco’s gon’ be makin’ a man a ship, what eva happened tah time?  And who woulda thought – makin’ it for Jean fucking Kirschtein, eh?  Not me, coz!”

I smile, touched.  “I wouldn’t expect you to put your money on a dead man, Ymir.”

“Nah, mate, even if I knew he was alive, I wouldn’ta bet even a copper on it.”  She shrugs.  “Last I saw the boy – last any’un saw the boy – he was a right asshole.  Must’ve changed, tah earn yar heart, eh?”

Her eyes flick sideways to me, calculating and smoldering.  They watch my expression crumble from a smile into confusion, and the crease returns to her brow. 

“…What do you mean, Ymir?” I say uneasily.  “The business with Titan?”

“Well, yeah, _that_ ,” she says with a half-assed little bob of her head.  “Mind you, most shits were bein’ fuckin’ dicks tah their dragons, even that Levi shit.  So not much really on that front.  Nah, I was talkin’ more about all that teenage bullshit with Jaeger, Knock-Knees, and Princess.”

I hesitate for half a heartbeat.  Cautiously, I ask, “What… what do you mean?”

She glances pityingly sideways at me.  “Wouldn’t expect ya too remember, ya always kept yar nose in yar own business, good boy ya were.  That’s the way tah be, I say.”

“But you know?” I ask, frowning. 

Ymir shrugs.  “I was fuckin’ the bard at the time, she loved all ‘at shit.  Had nice tits, so I let her jabber ‘bout all o’ it tah me.”

“Of course,” I mutter with a roll of the eyes.  “Ymir, is it really necessary, for me to hear about this?”

Fixing me with a hard glare, she says, “Do ya think I’d bring it up if it wasn’t, coz?  Ya’d have a lot more o’ a clue as tah why yar boy’s so damned jumpy.”

She’s got me there.  I slump my shoulders in defeat, nodding.  “Okay, shoot.”

“Long version or short version, eh?”

Grimacing, I shake my head.  “Short version, for everyone’s sake.” 

“Eren and Jeanbo were teenage frisky buddies.”  Ymir leans backwards against Fucknut, lacing her hands together behind her head.  “Lotsa problems with ‘at ‘un – Shadis bein’ homophobic as fuck, they woulda been both outta tha runnin’ for that ol’ Nightmare if they were found out.”

She gestures lazily to Titan, curled up some distance away.  

“Kept up with their frottin’ anyway, caught them outside my forge once, the nasties.  Problem was, Jeanbo seems tah be quite the romantic.  ‘Nd Eren had his sights on other men.  Namely the boy he’s courtin’ now.”

“Oh, no,” I murmur, my stomach knotting.  _Armin_.  Fuck, that had to have hurt. 

“Aye, what I said.  Jeanbo was jealous and acted like a lil fuckin’ bitch, never was very nice tah the blondie.  Eren didn’t deny the attraction and claimed that Jean still had the hots for the ace princess.  Big ol’ bitchfits between the two o’ them, lotsa hate sex.  Their rivalry came tah a head over that damned dragon, and their love affair was too much fire and not enough real shit tah stay.  They broke it off for real a few days before Jeanbo vanished.”

“Oh, hairy Thor in Valhalla,” I mutter, rubbing the heel of my hand into my temple.  “I wish he’d told me that.”

“Don’t think yar first steps in a new love should be tellin’ yar lover the horrific ways ya fucked up last time,” Ymir says sympathetically, shrugging.  “Probably shoulda come up what with us movin’ in, though.”

“I’ll – I’ll have to ask him about it.”  I pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger.  “Fucking…  Thanks for telling me, Ymir.”

“Eh, no problem,” she says, waving her hand.  “Figured ya’d want tah know ‘s all.”

She scoots closer to me, nudging out arms together with an uncharacteristic amount of gentleness.  Resting her head on her knees, Ymir squints sideways at me, lips pursed. 

“What’s that face for?” I chuckle nervously. 

“Just curious ‘bout you ‘nd the boy.”  Her eyes squint a little more.  “Give me the scoop, Marco, ya know I won’t tell nobody.”

I hesitate for half a second, biting at my lip.  I’ve always preferred to keep my private life my own – an old habit, I suppose, from being friendless and having no private life to share.  But Ymir, as sad as it sounds, is even more friendless than I ever was.  She won’t tell anybody.  And besides – I decide with a smile that I could live with babbling about just how amazing I find Jean to someone. 

“Well,” I say, pivoting around to face her, “what do you want to hear?”

“What do I wanna hear?!”  Baring her teeth in her wolfish smile, she swings around to face me.  “Everythin’, boy.  Everythin’.  Don’t know the last time I’ve seen ya lookin’ so happy, ya know.”

A warm blush touches my cheeks.  “Well, uh.  You heard how we first met.”

“Oh, yes.”  She snickers into her elbow.  “Very poetic, by the way, ya’re a right daisy picker.  Maybe ya ought tah give up teaching and become an author.”

“Shut up, I’m not telling you anything anymore.”

“Noooooo.”  Ymir head-butts my knee.  “Pleeeeeease.  For me?”

“You’re insulting me!”

“It’s love!”

“Is it?!”

“It is, Marco!  I love ya!”

“Do you?!  Do you really?!”

“Maaaaarco.”  She head-butts my knee again, harder this time.  “Ya’re being a dick.  ‘M sorry I asked, fuckin’ hell…”

“Ugh, fine, I suppose I’ll accept your affection.”  Wincing, I rub at my leg, shooting her a reproachful glare.  “You’ve got the same headbutt as a Rumblehorn, the fuck.”

She grins from ear to ear.  “Reason Fucknut ‘nd I get along so damn well, actually.  But enough changing the subject.  Talk.”

“Fine, fine.”  I lean my head back.  “Well, I have no idea how to start off.  Give me something to go off of.”

“First morning ya remember, first time ya really saw the boy,” she says promptly.  “Tell me a love story from start to end.”

“Okay, well – Jean was a _complete fuckin’ dork_ the first few days I knew him.”

Ymir erupts in ugly, delighted laughter.  Grinning, I watch her roll onto her back, shoulders shaking, tears springing into her eyes.  From that point onwards, I tell our story easily. 

As I talk, and as I tell her about how Jean and I came together slowly and cautiously, I realize that there isn’t any one moment I fell in love.  I cannot pinpoint a moment when my heart started jumping when he said my name, I cannot think of a time before I grinned when I heard him laugh. 

It occurs to me that maybe there wasn’t a single moment.  Or maybe I’ve just been in love with him this entire time; I just hadn’t realized it. 

It’s sappy and ridiculous, but I entertain the notion for an embarrassingly long amount of time. 

I think Ymir realizes how lovestruck and sappy I am – she keeps rolling her eyes and suppressing snickers, her wolfish grin becoming more and more gentle.  The fierce blaze of her eyes has softened into a warm glow.  She smirks and shakes her head, looking as soft as I’ve ever seen her. 

 “I – I know he has troubles with this kind of stuff,” I admit, scratching at the back of my neck and frowning down at the cracked stone floor.  “Meeting everyone, I mean.  Facing this way of life again.  And I know – I know it’s not going to be easy, for him to fall back into Berk’s way of life.  But I believe he _can_ do it.”

“I do, too,” Ymir says.  She sounds more docile than usual – like a tamed dog.  I’ve never heard it before. 

“I’ll fight for him,” I tell her viciously, spinning around to face her.  My hand fists in the armor he made for me and I clench my jaw, glaring defiantly outwards at the world trying to tear us apart.  A cold rage sweeps through my chest, calming in the same swipe it kindles with.  I square my shoulders, feeling a new weight upon them. 

Talking with Ymir, visiting my not-so-distant past, it’s brought up a realization: I _am_ going to have to fight for Jean.  Maybe not with an axe, maybe not in the type of fight that draws blood.  But I will fight all the same. 

Ymir taps her fingers along the hilt of her battleaxe, an age-old nervous tick of hers.  Tension draws her shoulders tight.  She looks like she could snap if I touched her, and turbulent thoughts stir in the subdued fire of her eyes. 

Slowly, she turns on her ass to face me, biting her lip and staring down at the floor.  The conflict in her expression is sad more than furious; if I had to put a word to it, I’d say _resigned_. 

Never in my life have I seen Ymir look _resigned_.  A cold stone settles in the pit of my stomach. 

At last, lifting her head, she says, “Marco, I’m – I’m gonna tell ya somethin’, and I need ya tah let me finish what I’m sayin’.  No interruptions, jus’ try tah understand, alright?”

An icy fist seizes my heart; a nervous lump in my throat makes it impossible to speak, so I only nod, bracing myself for the worst. 

Ymir sighs and rakes a hand through her hair, fixing me with a glare like the glow of cooling steel, still white-hot and biting.  I wish I could say the return of the heat in her eyes is comforting.  It reminds me more of a reluctantly mustered battle cry than her typical blaze. 

 “Listen tah me, Marco, and listen good,” she growls, leaning forward with a scowl.  “Ya really like this boy, I don’t have a single fuckin’ doubt ya’d do anything tah make this work between ya two.” 

I nod tightly, wary of where this could be going.  “I would.” 

She waves her hand loosely through the air, nodding.  “Right!  But – you and Jean – ya’ve been living in _his_ world.”  Sighing out through her nose, Ymir shakes her head, looking troubled.  “Ya’re comfortable here, everythin’ works, and it’s been a lil utopia where ya didn’ have tah worry ‘bout the real world, or anythin’ beyond pettin’ dragons and touchin’ boners.”

“Ymir –”

“And it’s been great, hasn’t it?” she says, eyes gleaming.  “Felt like ya were livin’ a dream, Marco, like he’d shown ya a whole new way of bein’.  But now” – she uncrosses her legs and sets her jaw – “that world has shattered tah bits and pieces around ya, and ya’d be a fool tah ignore that, coz.”

 _I don’t want to hear this._ Overwhelmed, I shoot to my feet, opening my mouth to silence her, but she jumps up just as quickly as I do, and her eyes are filled with a dangerous wildfire, the type that catches in dry wood and spreads through a forest in the blink of an eye, smothering all life in its quick, bright blaze. 

“Listen, Marco!” she hisses before I can say a word.  “I ain’t sayin’ that it ain’t gonna work out.  Just the opposite, ‘n fact.  I think ya can make it work.”

She reaches forward and clasps my arm – I try to pull it away with a feral snarl, but she holds tighter, her wildfire eyes keeping my gaze steady on hers. 

“I think ya love this boy, Marco, and I think I’d be happy tah see you two have a life together.  I think ya can make this work, coz.  But if it don’t – and coz, that’s a really big _if_ there – _if it don’t work_ , it ain’t on your shoulders.” 

I yank my arm back away from her as if she’d burned me, holding it tightly against my side.  The places she’d held me tight still tingle, as if she’d left burning handprints behind, but when I look down, I see nothing but the leather Jean made.  Emotions knotting treacherously in a lump in my throat, I glare a warning at her.

“What do you mean,” I grit out through clenched teeth.  “Tell me what you mean.”

“I mean that –”  She throws her arms in frustration, shaking her head like a wild dog.  “Dammit, Marco, ya’ve been living in Jean’s world.  Ya know how tah work in his world, know how tah act and how tah fit in.

“It’s been an escape for the two of ya – didn’t have tah think about shit – but now that’s over.”  Stepping forward hesitantly, Ymir stares down at the ground almost sadly.  “Ya can’t get that back, Marco.  It’s over, it’s done.  Yar honeymoon stage is over – way too quickly.”

My voice is a whisper between us, a whisper of a denial that holds no semblance to any tongue I know, but Ymir seems to understand all the same.  She steps forward again. 

“I’m sorry, Marco,” she says sincerely, “but ya’ve got tah face this.”

“That – it doesn’t mean anything!” 

“Marco –”

“I’ll fight for him,” I swear to her darkly, stepping closer until our eyes are nearly level, until I feel her heat in the space between us.  “I know it’s going to be hard, Ymir.  I _know_ that.”  It’s snarled out more than spoken, sounding feral even to my own ears.  “And – I _know_ that it won’t be the same, but dammit – I will fight!”

Ymir scowls as blackly as sin.  “I know that, ya lil shit, I know that,” she snarls right back, bristling.  “Ya’ll do anything to keep this together, ya’ll stretch yarself so thin ya won’t even know this happy lovey dovey business anymore!  Ya’ll make yarself miserable over this boy!”

She takes a step back, but only to pace agitatedly back and forth across the stone like a caged cat. 

“I _know_ ya’ll do that, but Jean – he’s _untried_ , he’s _untested!_ ”  Her laugh is dry and dead as a sun-bleached bone.  “He hasn’t done shit socially for the last decade, there’s no way in hell he’s ready for this.”

The dismal truth in her words hits a chord deep inside me that leaves me staggered – the fierceness of my façade breaks suddenly and visibly, leaving me vulnerably.  Ymir presses her advantage, bringing our faces close together.  Agony and pity both gleam in her firelit eyes.

Her hand comes up to squeeze my shoulder in a rare display of comfort.  “The way yar love story falls next don’t rest on yar shoulders, ya gotta know that, Marco.  Ya don’t know how he’s gonna –”

I suck in a breath to quickly offer some sort of desperate rebuttal in Jean’s favor, but her discipline comes hard and sharp across my shoulder.

“Listen tah me, Marco!” she growls like a dragon.  “Ya said ya’d let me speak!” 

“Fine.”  I shrug away her hand, stepping out of her reach, but keeping our gazes locked to read every saddened flicker of her eyes.  “Fine, what is it?” 

And she seems to back off after a second of chewing her lip nervously, trying to string words together.  Sighing, she rakes a weary hand through her hand and shakes her head.  Looking down at my feet rather than meeting my eyes, she begins to speak softly, as if she’s a scolded child. 

“Look, Marco, I’m just sayin’ – ya’ve done everything ya can tah make this thing work between the two of ya.  Ya’ll continue tah do that, ya’ll continue tah love him, I _know_ ya will. 

But that boy’s yet tah make his choice, and when he does, _he_ decides how this is going tah fall.” 

And then she meets my gaze, and in her eyes is a fiercer blaze than even that of the wildfire before – hotter, brighter, more furious and stubborn than anything I've seen ebfore.  It is an inferno that burns away every falsity in its path, leaving only ashes and truth, it is a fire that steels and strengthens her words, it is ferocious and wild and so violently _Ymir_ that it takes my breath away.  

“If ya _stand,_ if ya _fall_ – that’s up tah _him_ , Marco, and it’s no one’s fault but his.  _He_ decides.  Do me a favor ‘nd – remember that, when this all boils down?”

The magnificent fire in her eyes snuffs out the second she mumbles her plea.  She bites at her lower lip nervously and ducks her head down, as if afraid she’d crossed some line she’d drawn herself.  Pathetic and frightened, but worried for me all the same. 

Her words are like a hot brand burned in the back of my mind, an echo of Ymir's ferocity. 

 _If we stand, if we fall._  

His burden.  Not mine. 

And I _hate_ how good that feels, I _hate_ the way the burden lifts from my shoulders.  I hate that I understand what Ymir’s been trying to tell me, that I’m thankful she’s told me.  Standing off from me and toeing at the stones, she avoids my gaze nervously, a ghost of her defiant self. 

“Ymir –”  I reach forward and tentatively grab her arm.  “Thank you.”

Her gaze flickers up to meet mine, and she smiles, slow and sly.  Throwing a punch into my ribs, Ymir gathers back her courage and laughs.  Her teeth flash in the dim light like a rabid wolf’s. 

“I thought – I thought ya’d be mad with me, coz, I’ll be honest,” she says, rolling her shoulders back a few times.  “Ya don’t tend tah like me snoopin’ in on yar affairs.”

“Your opinions are always welcome, Ymir,” I sigh, shaking my head slowly.  “I mean – this fucking sucks, and I’m not quite – not quite okay with it yet, but I’m glad you told me.”

“It does suck.”  She smashes the toe of her boot against the stone in frustration.  “It sucks fat dragon dick.  And I wish… dammit, Marco, I wish I could help the two of ya.”

She turns and she meets me gaze earnestly, a fragile, genuine sort of smile toying at the corners of her lips. 

“You let me know if there’s anything I can do, aight?” she urges gently, bumping her elbow against me.  “Beatin’ up Eren, smackin’ sense intah homophobes… I’ll do it for you, Marco.  And yar boy, too.”

I muster a weak smile.  “You’re sweet, Ymir.  Practically a kitten.  What would the Brotherrhood do if they knew their precious Ravager was nothing but a softie daisy-picker?”

“Eyyyyy,” she warns with a reproachful glare, punching my shoulder viciously.  “I take it all back, yar the worst damn cousin a girl could have.  Ya sicken me.  Go, get outta my sight, ya gay sonuvabitch.”

Chuckling, I pull her into a tight embrace.  She grumbles but lets my arm loop around her shoulders, lets me cuddle her to my chest.  Her head drops down for a small second onto my shoulder, its weight warm and comforting.  I squeeze her tightly, burying my face into her hair. 

She smells like home.  Singed, maybe, singed and dirty, but the smell of Berk clings to her.  My gut pangs with homesickness. 

“’M sorry, Marco,” she mumbles. 

“Not your fault, Ymir.”

“No one else is gonna apologize for it.”  She awkwardly butts her head against my collarbone.  “This is gonna be hard, ya know.”

“I’m still gonna fight.”  I swallow down the lump in my throat.  “I believe in him.  And I’m gonna fight for us.”

“I know.”  Ymir sighs, nudging just a bit closer to me.  “That’s what’s gonna make it hard, boy.”

* * *

 

There’s a stranger in the bar. 

Normally, this wouldn’t bother Krista; there’s many strangers in Dreki Kló, and it’s often more dangerous to recognize a face in the crowd.  But to have a stranger coincide with Ymir’s protection vanishing – this, _this_ is bothering. 

To be frank, Krista’d hated being followed by lackeys with toothless smiles and swollen joints.  She hadn’t been aware of their presence at first, but when she noticed them, she couldn’t _stop_ noticing them, ghosting her every step. 

One night as she was packing to leave, they stole her ship to keep her marooned on the island.  She came back to the dock to find a cut rope and broken beer bottles.  They batted their eyelashes and claimed to have nothing to do with it, but she knows. 

She’s hated them, yes, but they did make her feel safe.  As frightening as the Ymir character had been, she had seemed… trustworthy, in that Krista doubts she’d use any energy to lie. 

Usually, when she enters the Snafflefang’s Lair, they shadow her and creep into the corner.  But the moment she pushed open the paint-chipped door, the one following her had smiled nastily and vanished into the crowd. 

Krista had waited in the doorway, uncertain of how to continue.  She thought at first it was a changing of guard.  But no one reappeared to take the smiler’s place. 

And now, the woman. 

The moment she walked in, Krista’s hackles rose.  There is something in her aura, a tangible unpleasantness in the air she breathes, because as she walks through the usually bustling bar, people step out of her path and scoot in their chairs to let her through.  When she growls at the man in the bar stool she wants, he scampers off. 

Physically, the woman does not look like much.  She’s a slight girl with a pretty face and a large nose, hair thrown up in a frizzy bun.  Her white hooded cloak is in tatters, her leather armor waterlogged and flaking.  Only the bitterly cold ice in her eyes, so different than Ymir’s dangerous fire, betrays the danger the little woman poses. 

Krista tries to ignore her and enjoy her meal.  Recently, she’s had too many run-ins with powerful people.  But her curiosity gets the better of her – she watches the woman’s back curiously, straining to hear her whispered conversation. 

As Krista watches, the flippant barmaid becomes noticeably less flippant.  Though infamous for being loose-lipped, she isn’t stupid.  She can’t be, to survive as long as she has in the cutthroat reality of Dreki Kló.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously, lips pressed tightly together.  Her hand clenches in the rough, dirty fabric of her washcloth, frozen down the middle of the glass.  Undaunted as the barmaid may be by the woman, something seems to have spooked her. 

The woman speaks lowly, calmly.  Not a single emotion flickers across the blue panes of her eyes.  Her voice has no inflection, and the only time her expression twitches is with a silent snarl of her lips that never reaches her eerie eyes. 

They remind Krista of a glacier – savage, beautiful, cold, and unchanging.  An unstoppable force of nature.  There is something incredibly appealing in the confident brutality hidden in her every movement.  Krista wishes, not for the first time, that she had a less dangerous taste in women. 

Suddenly, an alarmingly nasty expression flashes across the barmaid’s face.  She leans very close to the stranger, bringing their faces together to whisper something.  Intrigued by the woman’s smirk, Krista sits forward.  She strains to hear something over the din of the tavern, anything to give her a clue to the stranger’s identity.  But the laughing drunkards are far too noisy, and she cannot hear a thing. 

And then the barmaid looks up and locks their gazes together.  Krista’s heart plummets to her stomach at her vicious smirk.  Her blood turns to ice in her veins – she wants to run, to flee, but she feels like a bird frozen in the eyes of a viper. 

Smiling, the barmaid tips her head.  The cold gaze of the stranger whirls around to meet Krista’s.  They’re barren, devoid of all life and laughter, like pale bones beaten dead by the unforgiving ocean.  But despite the nothing in the stranger’s eyes, her brow furrows angrily. 

A thin webbing of ice coats the inside of her stomach.  Her throat suddenly becomes very dry.  Swallowing futilely, Krista realizes that this woman, whoever she may be, this woman has figured it out – _she has been found._  

And by the look in the stranger’s eyes, it isn’t going to end well for Krista. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like that title drop?
> 
> Wooooow I'm sorry this took so long for me to post I hit a bit of writer's block but I hope this huuuuge chapter made up for it, thank you so much for all your lovely comments <3 I'm sorry I suck at replying but honestly you guys are the best. 
> 
> Also! Pololotp did some more amazing [doodles](http://pololotp.tumblr.com/post/146660361177/i-kept-thinking-i-had-to-post-these-doodles-but-i), I haven't been able to stop looking at them they're gorgeous ;-; thank you so much <3
> 
> And if you're interested I did a [Eren aesthetic](http://do-not-go-gentl.tumblr.com/post/147017283106/have-my-httyd-au-eren-aesthetic-pic-credits-1) from this fic!
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Stormcutter](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Stormcutter)  
> As always feel free to comment any questions about the HTTYD world and I will try my hardest to answer them!!


	14. Monstrous Nightmare

When backed into a corner, every creature on the face of the world reverts back to its most primal reaction. 

There is an almost savage sense to it, being trapped by a predator, something stronger and more powerful.  The beat of the heart in the ears, the ragged, panicked breathing, the frantic darting of nervous eyes, the twitching throughout.  Perhaps a creature may try to run.  Perhaps the creature may cower. 

But there always, always is a decision. 

Cower or turn and fight. 

There eventually comes a point where a creature can cower no more, cannot run and cannot hide.  They reach a point when their only option is to stand. 

And _then_ the creature turns. 

Turning more viciously upon their attacker and fighting more bitterly for their life than anything else in the world, in a desperate, defiant fury that defines whether the creature lives or dies – they fight with every drop of blood left in their body, until every drop is spilled upon the marble floor. 

Krista has no place to run.  She has no backup.  And so, when she hears the slow crescendo of her heartbeat in her ears and the heaviness of her breath, when her eyes dart around the room in search of escape, she knows the path she will inevitably take, even before the woman drops down in the chair opposite her. 

“Krista Lenz.”  Calm, steely voice, unfalteringly confident. 

Squaring her shoulders, Krista summons her hardest glare.  “I’d offer the same if I knew your name.”

“Call me Annie.”  She leans forward, bracing her muscled forearms against the table.  “This doesn’t have to be bloody, Lenz.”

“Oh, good, I was hoping it wouldn’t,” Krista retorts coolly. 

Annie’s eyes narrow.  “If you cooperate, it won’t.  Are you going to make this messy, Lenz?”

“I feel like you’re going to have to tell me what I’m cooperating with before I give you a definitive yes or no.”

She leans backwards, glaring mightily down at Krista along her long nose.  “When the Ravager was here.  She came to you?”

A block of ice plunks to the bottom of her stomach.  Casting the barmaid an evil glare, Krista says, “By that cadence of your voice, you already know the answer.” 

“You’re right.”  Annie sweeps the hair out of her eyes.  “I do.  But I thought I’d give you a chance to deny it.”

“Nothing to deny.  I offered services to the Ravager, same as anyone with half a mind would.”

And then Annie moves as quick as a bolt of lightning, little more than a blur of motion in Krista’s eyes – she instinctively jumps back to protect herself, back hitting the wall, but no attack comes.  She stabs a jagged dagger deep into the wood of the table.  Its rickety legs rattle and squeal.  The tavern grows quieter at the sound of it. 

“Tell me the truth,” Annie demands icily, standing now, looming over Krista.  Her eyes gleam blue like a wolf dog’s in the shadow of her face, steeped in a terrible, cold fury. 

Krista’s heart hammers madly in her heart.  She hadn’t seen the woman move, hadn’t even seen the dagger at her side.  If her instincts hadn’t sent her jumping backwards, it would’ve plunged through her arms.  Just the thought of being pinned to the table, blood bubbling around the cold metal through her skin, makes Krista shiver. 

Her eyes flicker up to Annie’s, her final chord of bravery pulsing weakly in the face of terror.  “I’m afraid your barmaid friend’s going to have to scrub blood out of the floorboards, because I’m not telling you anything.”

Annie snarls and launches herself at Krista, both hands grasping for her throat.  Time seems to slow – Krista sees the curl of Annie’s snarl, sees her hand ball into a fist.  Every line of Annie’s body is hewn with malice. 

And that is when she feels it kick in – a pounding adrenaline in her veins, a hot fury that turns her vision red.  She feels a thousand feet tall, stronger and faster, fueled by the raw anger in her veins. 

She cannot run. 

She cannot hide. 

She cannot cower. 

And so Krista turns and fights. 

Annie’s hands smash against the wall where she’d been an instant before.  Krista’s hand finds the hilt of her knife as she staggers backwards – she lunges for the woman’s face, enraged. 

The woman grabs Krista’s wrist out of the air.  Her grip is iron, but Krista has momentum.  Yelling, she slams her free fist into the woman’s face, hurling every ounce of her strength into it.  It collides with her nose, and Krista hears a satisfying crunch of bone. 

Taken off guard, the woman drops Krista.  She tries to dance back before Annie can retaliate, but the other woman is much quicker.  With a sweeping kick, Annie knocks Krista onto her back. 

Landing ungracefully, Krista squeaks.  Desperate, she tries to scramble to her feet, but another punishing blow from Annie smashes her body back to the ground.  Pain explodes through her side.  Her mind howls that she needs to escape, needs to get away.  She flips onto her back and scrambles across the wood blindly. 

A fist yanks her upright from the scruff of her neck, choking her.  But Krista recovers quickly. 

Yowling, she lunges backwards and rakes her nails through soft skin, clawing and kicking like a child.  One of her fingers lodges in something wet and soft – with a furious snarl, Krista shoves it mercilessly into Annie’s eye socket.  Around her, cheering men gasp.  Shrieking, Annie drops her back to the floor. 

Krista lands heavily against the floorboards.  Her breath leaves her in one sickly gasp.  Coughing, she staggers onto two legs and desperately dashes for the door. 

“Stop her!” she hears Annie shout.  Krista’s heart races with elation as she reaches the door.  If she can only get outside and fade into the crowd, Ymir’s followers will return and she’ll be safe from this other woman. 

But as Krista bursts through the doorway, she runs right into another fist. 

Crying out, Krista reels backwards, her hands going to clutch at her jaw.  It is a beginner’s mistake, but Krista doesn’t know any better.  The punishing kick to the stomach takes her by surprise and knocks her effortlessly back to the ground. 

Groaning, Krista tries to roll over, but a foot lands sharply on her shoulder and pins her to the ground.  The heavy boot reeks of dragonshit.  Confused, she blinks up at her attacker, willing her eyes to focus, and she sees –

Krista’s blood runs cold. 

“Many apologies, Raven.”  The oily voice of the dragon watcher reaches her distantly, as if he’s speaking through a wall.  “Understand, we could not directly betray the Ravager – her control may not extend to the City, but here… we live very much in fear.”

“I don’t blame you.”  Annie sounds stuffy, as if her nose is clogged with blood, and something in Krista pangs with satisfaction. “The Ravager is a menace that needs to be put down.  Once I’m finished with this bitch, I’ll be sure she never bothers you with this freelance bullshit again.”

And with that, a savage kick slams into Krista’s ribs.  She yelps with pain, body aching and arching away from the brutal strike. 

“I will admit,” the dragon watcher says lecherously, “it brings me… _great pleasure_ , to see the Ravager’s whore squealing with pain.”

Krista’s heart sings with fear.  With renewed energy, she tries to sit up, but the boot presses her harder against the coarse wood. 

“My pleasure first, watcher,” Annie says coolly.  “You are not to touch her until I’m done.”

The dragon watcher huffs.  “It is cruel to give me hope, Raven.”

A fist seizes the front of Krista’s shirt, effortlessly heaving her upwards.  The boot on her shoulder slips away.  Gasping, Krista focuses on the person holding her, her vision tunneling on a pair of blue eyes as cold and dangerous as a glacier. 

“Have faith, watcher,” Annie says impassively.  “If she cooperates, I’ll send you one of her tits in a box.”

“That, kind Raven, will be more than enough to satisfy me.”

* * *

 

Without fires blazing in their beds, the Great Hall grows bitterly cold.  Even with great wooden structures, the overwhelming amount of stone in the hall’s build invites Berk’s lethal chill inside its walls.  The nip of the air bites the lips and lungs both – such cold hardly welcomes, such cold cannot exist in a hall meant to hold such laughter. 

Erwin bends over the long-dead coal beds, coaxing the tentative fires back to their former glory.  The returning warmth sweeps his cheeks.  Orange light casts jagged shadows on the curious faces of those gathered. 

There has been precious little worth gathering for lately, no reason to keep the fires from dying.  The ashes sat untouched in the Great Hall for days.  Like everything on Berk, they grew cold and miserable in the dark. 

Now the fire rouses slowly on the bones of its predecessors, cautiously, almost, but it seems hopeful all the same.  They have such potential.  Already, Erwin feels the warmth from the hearths seeping into his bones. 

There is already a lightness in his chest, buoyed now by the fire and those come to rest beside it.  He recognizes their faces – children, adults, elders.  Auroro, Pixis, Mina.  Hanji and Moblit, side by side and whispering.  Stoic Mike and peppy Petra.  The Bodt family, solemn-faced, slipping in one at a time and clumping together.  The Tribe of Berk, gathering in the Great Hall. 

This morning, a letter arrived on the wings of a harried Terrible Terror.  The tiny dragon dropped it down on Erwin’s bedside, squawking and shivering in the cold.  Levi’d thrown a boot at the poor little creature.  Luckily, he’d missed his mark. 

Now, the little dragon sits on his shoulder, nibbling nervously at his ear.  The soft press of its talons through the bearskin keeps him grounded.  And it is that grounding he so desperately needs. 

The contents of the letter deserve the first real gathering in the Great Hall.  He’d reread it again and again.  Levi snarked about his stupid ass smile, but Erwin could only smile broader – good news, for the first time in too long. 

He needs not think hard about the message within.  He’s long committed the words to memory and recalls it in a single heartbeat –

 

_Dear Chief Erwin and the Tribe of Berk,_

_On behalf of all my scouting party, I apologize for deviating from our intended course, but we could not allow Marco’s alleged death to go uninvestigated and, at the least, unavenged.  We used no Tribe supplies or coin but our own, and no one in our group committed any treason beyond the crime of abandoning our post.  We humbly ask that you forgive this in light of what I am about to share with you._

_On our journey, we set out to find one pair of missing Berkians.  We have found Marco Bodt and Orochi both breathing and free from all imprisonment._

_They were indeed held captive by the traders, and Marco only barely escaped the fall of their fortress intact.  Even now, he is healing from his wounds and is unable to make the long journey home quite yet.  It is certain that, without the help of another Tribesman, he would’ve surely been lost._

_Marco and all of us are now under the protection of Jean Kirschtein and his dragon Eydis, the same Jean Kirschtein we thought was lost many years ago._

_He has, in an act of good will, he has sheltered us and provided us with supplies.  Kirschtein has made it clear he asks nothing in return but forgiveness for so long a silence.  Thus far, he has no plans to return home with us._

_Marco would like to tell his family that he loves them very dearly and misses them very much.  He added that he hopes his funeral pyre was very beautiful and he lamented making them have to burn another in his name._

_To Mina and Thomas, he extends them warm greetings, and apologizes for him being thought deceased, as he believes “being dead probably threw a wrench in their schedules”.  He hopes that he can be with them soon._

_Ymir would like to say that she told you so, and she warns Samuel not to touch any of her gear or she’ll hang his “shrunken peanut of a scrotum” above her forge._

_All of us wish Berk calms seas and warm skies.  We anxiously await the day we may return, none of us more than Marco and Orochi._

_Sincerely,_

_Armin Arlert_

* * *

 

By the time the sun sets and the silver moon rises, Krista’s shaking with fear.  She’d been thrown like luggage over the back of a Deadly Nadder, bound and gagged.  Her arms ache from the strain of being tied behind her back, her neck hurts from lifting it, the blood long rushed to her head, and the gag pulls tightly at her mouth; it’s humiliating, to drool all over herself the way she is. 

To make matters worse, the Titans that’d followed around her laughed and made lewd gestures in the shadows.  She quivers with fear that they’ll make good on their silent threats, and so despite the pain in her neck, she doesn’t let her head fall limply to the Nadder’s side. 

Despite her terror, Krista never once hopes for rescue from the port’s residents.  It isn’t remotely odd to see someone being kidnapped around here; she herself has walked past identical scenes for years.  What Krista does hope for is Ymir. 

_Ymir made them quiver in their boots.  Dear angels above, if she can put the fear of God in them, I don’t know what she’s done – but what I would give to be safe from Annie right now._

The blonde woman finishes speaking with the dragon watcher by the docks at long last.  She nods curtly and drops a few coins into his upturned hands.  Krista guesses she’s promised more once she’s done; she doubts he’d betray someone like Ymir for just a few coppers. 

Annie turns and prowls back towards her dragon.  She casts an icy glare to the Titans lurking in the shadows, and they shrink back into the darkened night, terrified of her.  As she approaches, Krista tries all the harder to free herself from her bounds.  Once they’re in the air, there will be no escape from the woman. 

Annie’s cold eyes flick disinterestedly towards her, and Krista’s heart stops.  Her lips twist unpleasantly.  The Nadder croaks a greeting to its rider, rocking Krista uncomfortably on its back as it stirs excitedly.  Annie touches its nose to calm it, her eyes never leaving Krista’s. 

“No screaming, girl,” she warns softly, her other hand pulling at the gag.  “There are other ways to silence you.  I can think of many.”

Krista’s heart bursts back to life, racing like a caged rabbit’s.  She nods obediently, too terrified to do anything but comply to her captor’s wishes. 

“Good girl.”  The gag slips out from between her lips, embarrassingly wet.  Krista coughs and licks her lips, swallowing dryly, but does not scream.  Breathing heavy, she looks up at Annie between her bangs. 

“What do you want?” she whispers, her voice dry and cracked.  “I’ll – I’ll give you whatever you want, let me free, please.”

“So you can find another Terror and tell your friends I’m coming?”  Annie shakes her head, tsking.  “Don’t take me for a fool.”

“I’ll tell you where they are,” she says desperately.  “I’ll – I’ll mark it on your map, I swear, I’ll tell the truth.  I swear it!  Just – please, please, let me go, let me free –”

“I know which direction to go.”  Annie tightens the girth of the Nadder’s saddle, preparing it for flight.  “The dragon watcher saw the way your friends went.”

Krista’s eyes fill with tears.  “P-please,” she gasps, “please let me go, I’ll do anything, please, _please, let me go_ –”

Annie falls into a crouch.  She props Krista’s chin roughly up with one gloved finger, so that she stares right into those intense blue eyes.  There is so much danger there.  Krista freezes, caught like a bird in the eyes of a snake; she cannot look away from her captor’s gaze.  A single tear traces hot down her cheek. 

“If I cut your bounds, those people in the shadows will rape you thrice each and dump your dead body into the ocean,” Annie says quietly, her voice harsh with truth.  “They’ve already stolen all your wares and all your coin.  You have nothing here.  In just a little while, you won’t want to be on this island anyway.”

“Why not?” Krista whispers.

Annie ignores her.  She stands back up and fiddles with the packs of food and water beneath Krista, shoving her roughly aside.  Krista breathes heavily, her heart racing – her chest feels tight, her throat feels dry, she can barely _think_ straight.  But she needs to know what Annie was talking about. 

“ _Why not?!_ ” Krista demands, pulling her head up far enough to catch Annie’s gaze.  They stare at one another for a long moment, but then the other woman’s slips away almost guiltily. 

“…You’ll see soon enough.”

Krista’s blood boils.  “Why –”

“I will gag you tighter if you ask me that question again.”

She snaps her mouth shut and settles with glaring furiously at Annie’s boots.  Terror still grips her heart and ties knots in her belly, but dear god, is fury such an easier emotion to feel!  Her anger with her situation rolls over her in hot waves – she hates her binds, hates her captor, hates herself for getting into this stupid situation.  She hates the Nadder, the Titans, and the full moon that dances so merrily on the surface of the inky black water. 

Krista longs for Ymir.  She had little love for the thug before Annie, but now, all she can think about is how much better it would be if the Ravager was by her side. 

At last, the order of things seems satisfactory for Annie, and she swing up into the saddle.  Krista’s gut pitches as the Nadder stamps its feet excitedly.  Annie calms it with a “hush, Saphira,” and without another word to the beast, she taps her heels to its sides, and it takes off. 

Krista wriggles around in her binds until she’s staring at the little island of Dreki Kló.  The orange torchlight looks so beautiful on the black water.  As the dragon carries them further and further from the island, her heart sinks.  A quiet misery fills her chest in its wake, extinguishing every light of hope. 

She’s trapped with this madwoman, then.  For reasons beyond her knowledge, kidnapped and bound, she’ll be toted across the ocean until she’s no longer useful to Annie, and then her body will likely be dumped into the cold ocean. 

She hopes Annie won’t go through with her promise to the dragon watcher.  Somehow, she doubts that, though. 

A hot tear spills down her cheek, but the wind bites cold as it kisses her cheeks.  The sound of it is all-encompassing.  It whistles around the Nadder’s wings, tugs petulantly at her hair and throws it into her eyes, howls savagely in her ears like a wolf to the broad moon.  Like songs, like hisses, like the whispers of the night itself, it fills the blackness and erases the sound of the trading port, the Nadder’s wings, Krista’s own heart – there is only the wind and its moaning soliloquy, all alone in the quiet of night. 

And then that quiet is broken. 

A terrible screech echoes out over the ocean.  The Nadder bucks, squawking, flapping its wings nervously.  Annie curses and Krista is thrown back by her solid kick to the dragon’s sides, spurring it mercilessly forward.  Frantically, Krista jerks her head around, searching for the origin of the noise, and then –

_Oh my God._

She’s had moments like this before – moments when reality and what she sees before her don’t seem to coincide, moments when she feels like her eyes _must_ be lying, because there isn’t any other explanations for what they see.  It doesn’t click, doesn’t comprehend, somewhere deep inside.  Because that thing she sees – that monster – cannot exist. 

But somewhere even deeper, she has a deadly certainty that it is so very real. 

The creature moves as quickly as death across the black ocean.  Its scales, white as angels’ feathers, gleam palely in the moonlight.  Its massive body churns and roils, its mouth opens and that terrible noise pours from its lips, like an unholy scream. 

It reaches Dreki Kló in a heartbeat, moving fast, much too fast – Annie curses again, louder, and the frightened Nadder beats its wings all the harder.  People scurry across the docks, scrambling for their boats.  The dragon rears its fearsome head, and Krista can only think of how much they resemble tiny, helpless ants.

The sound of the dragon’s screaming comes again, louder than before, more furious.  The wind has fallen silent.  Krista longs for its return. 

Fire belches from its mouth, and the port, so drenched in filth and grease, blazes up immediately.  A few more shots of fire down onto the houses bellow and all hope is lost.  It throws its gruesome head back, screaming triumphantly, as the fire grows into a roaring inferno. 

The ferocious scream tapers off, and the dying cries of the traders of the island echo out across the waters.  People throw themselves off the docks, and boats push off from shore with burning sails.  The roaring of fire drowns their voices out, and the dragon snaps swimmers up before they can escape. 

_What is this?  What is this creature?  Why is it here?_

She watches it lay waste to Dreki Kló and feels so utterly small. 

 _Annie_ , a quiet thought says.  _Annie knew it was coming_. 

And so, with the Nadder beating its wings ever faster, and Annie’s voice whispering curses like prayers to the once-silent night, Dreki Kló burns to ashes in the indifferent seas of the cruel north.

* * *

 

Eren’s heart thumps loudly in his chest.  Excitedly, he skips between the scattered packs and bedrolls making up their camp on the outskirts of the Bewilderbeast’s den and comes to screeching halt beside Ymir’s supplies.  She leans up against her snoring dragon’s side and sharpens an axe between her legs.  When Eren lands beside her, her eyes flick up to his distractedly. 

“What’sit now, eh?”  

Eren coughs and straightens up, slightly winded.  “We’re, ah – we’re going to go flying.  Marco, Mikasa, Armin ‘nd I.  I think Sasha and Connie?  Anyway – we wanted to know if you want to come?”

Ymir glances at her snoring Rumblehorn and then at him with a silent, unimpressed _what do you think_ in her eyes. 

“So, uh – no?” Eren guesses. 

“Damn straight.”  She lifts the axe up to her eye and stares along the blade, her trained eye searching for any imperfections.  “Is the Stammerin’ Wonder taggin’ along too?”

Eren hides his initial reaction of annoyance, probably poorly.  “I mean, Marco’s going.”

Ymir chuckles at him, setting the axe back by her side.  “Aye, thought so.  Don’t let ‘im stand in the way of yar enjoyment, alright?  Yar a pair of fuckin’ bulls buttin’ heads over a flower when there’s a whole fuckin’ pasture tah enjoy.”

He doesn’t quite know what to think of the metaphor, but he thanks her all the same and scurries off towards Titan.  Truth be told, Ymir always frightened him as a boy.  Sometimes, he wonders if he ever outgrew that fear, or if he merely repressed it enough to function. 

But he shoves all thoughts of the menacing blacksmith from his mind for now – the thought of flying with the gang again is too tantalizing for him to resist. 

As he passes Linnie and Chusi, he slaps their rear.  Sasha and Connie’s dragon lift their pair of heads with a serpentine twist, four eyes narrowing maliciously at Eren.  He only laughs and goads them up onto their feet. 

“Come on, you lazy two-headed worm,” Eren laughs.  “We’re going flying, I know you like that…”

At the word _flying_ , Chusi eyes widen with recognition, but it doesn’t faze Linnie in the slightest.  Linnie trie to snap at Eren again, but without Chusi’s help, they can’t do shit.  Their teeth maul the empty air.  With a frustrated bellow, they turn angrily on Chusi, and in the next moment, they’re quarreling noisily with one another. 

Eren ducks beneath their flailing wing, laughing quietly at their antics.  There couldn’t have been a more perfect dragon for Connie and Sasha. 

Sindri doesn’t require much of his attention.  Awakened by the Zippleback’s fuss, she watches him impassively make his way over to Mikasa’s area.  Her white eyes look ghostly in the shadows of the cavern.  She lets him know what’s close enough to any of her rider’s belongings with a fierce warning growl.  An arcing bolt of electricity travels along her spines. 

Skrills aren’t chummy, and warning Eren instead of outright killing him is the friendliest Sindri gets.  He bows his head respectfully and bids a quick retreat, more than happy to give the Skrill her space. 

The last dragon to wake is faithful Titan.  Eren’s lazy asshole lounges all across his and Armin’s corner, coils of smoke puffing from his nostrils like smokestacks. 

He stirs as Eren approaches, blinking the sleep from his eyes.  A smug look in his eyes, Titan twists his head around to watch Eren hop between the backpacks.  The dragon greets him with a big, happy sigh, growling happily and curling his tail. 

“Hi, you sleepy bastard,” Eren says, seizing Titan’s horn playfully and rocking his head back and forth.  “Wake up, you’re actually getting exercise.”

Titan looks up at him like, _You can’t be serious._

Eren chuckles.  “You heard me, you’re going to get fat, lying around like that.  Up, up!”

He jostles Titan’s horn one last time and leaves the dragon to his own devices.  Titan will get up sometime; the asshat hates being left behind.  In the meantime, Eren busies himself in preparing Titan for flight. 

He’d loosened the straps of Titan’s gear to make it easier for the poor guy.  Berk gets the best leather gold can buy for the comfort of their dragons, but at the end of the day, it is still leather straps.  Eren would go crazy if he had to wear a leather harness day in and day out.  So he makes it easy for his Monstrous Nightmare. 

It riles Titan up.  He knows by now that whenever Eren starts fiddling with saddles, they’re in for a flight.  He stamps his feet and bellows impatiently, nudging Eren with the tips of his horns.  Excitement blazes in his orange eyes. 

“I know, bud,” Eren says, and he can’t keep the tremor of eagerness out of his voice.  “We’re going out with Marco – Loki’s underpants, did you ever think that was going to happen again?”

Titan gurgles and prods his horn a bit more reproachfully into the side of Eren’s head.  His skull makes a disturbingly hollow sound. 

“Ow!”  Eren knocks an elbow against Titan’s neck.  “Fuck off!”

Glancing back at Eren, his dragon seems utterly unimpressed. 

“…Yeah, yeah, okay, I was a stubborn bastard about it,” Eren admits, “but I was scared.  I knew he wasn’t dead.  And he wasn’t!  But… he might’ve been.”

“He wasn’t.”

Eren jumps a foot in the air with an undignified yelp.  “Fuck, Armin!  Don’t sneak up on me!”

Armin giggles.  “Sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare you.”  He smiles sweetly.  “But you were right, Eren.  Marco wasn’t dead.  And thanks to you, we’ve found him again.”

“Ah, well.”  Eren smiles bashfully.  “I’ve always been a stubborn bastard, I suppose.  Some good was ought to come of it eventually.”

“A lot of good’s come of it.” 

“Depends on who you ask, I guess.”

“A lot of good’s come of it,” Armin repeats with a smile.  Eren flushes.  _Fuck, why does he have to be so cute?_   His life would probably be a lot easier if Armin wasn’t so damn cute. 

Armin picks his way through the scattered supplies, heading towards him.  He flinches when Titan lifts his head to have a good look at the approaching human, but Eren’s pleased to see it’s less than before.  Armin’s jumpiness fazes Titan less as well – the dragon seems to have come to the conclusion that it’s just the way the strange blonde Viking is.  He drops his head obediently back by Eren’s side. 

“You don’t mind if I join you?” Armin asks hesitantly, approaching with his head down like a child.  “On… the flight?  I’ve been… having fun.”

Eren grins broadly.  “You’re always welcome on Titan, Armin.  You’re practically one of the gang.”

“Okay.”  Armin clicks his tongue, and his little Terrible Terror scurries up to his shoulder, blinking its bulbous, crossed eyes in Eren’s general direction.  “Is it okay if he comes, too?”

Titan puffs out a heavy sigh, anticipating his owner’s answer.  When Eren crows a hearty “Yes!” he shoots his rider an evil glare – the Terrible Terror and Monstrous Nightmare don’t always get along swimmingly.  They almost drove each other mad on the long trip here, and it was hell for both Eren and Armin. 

“I’m sorry, Titan,” Armin says softly, looking guilty. 

“Ah, don’t worry about him.”  Eren slaps Titan’s shoulder friendlily.  “He’s nothin’ but a big old baby.  I think we’re just about ready to take off though – if you’re ready?”

Eren looks hopefully to Armin.  The other boy is already nodding enthusiastically.  His pretty eyes are shining like a blue sky on flat water. 

“A-alright,” Eren stammers.  “Let’s, uh.  Let’s go then, okay?”

He offers his hand to Armin with the thought of helping him up onto Titan, but before Armin can take it, another voice booms through the empty chamber. 

“OI, FUCKERS, GET YAR GAY ASSES OUTTA HERE ALREADY, YAR BOYING THE GODDAMN PLACE UP!”

Eren’s lips twist in a snarl.  “FUCK YOU, YMIR!”

“FUCK YOU TOO, JAEGER!”

Armin only giggles.

* * *

 

There is a place at the top of the Bewilderbeast’s nest. 

If this nest were castle, if it were a fortress as sometimes it may seem to be, I would call this its tallest spire, its most magnificent turret; the wind is cold and savage, the air is biting and thin, the view stretches on and on as far as the eye can see, an unbroken flatness.  Many dragons don’t even dare fly so high.  And yet it is there all the same; a narrow path leading to a few spikes of ice level enough to be walked upon by those brave enough to risk falling, falling down to an unforgiving, snow-covered shore. 

I suppose I understand why Jean’s sought refuge up here, at the mercy of the brutal wind and the ice riding on it.  It’s one of the few places he has left. 

He sits crisscross on the thickest part of the highest spike, back to me, eyes on the horizon.  The winds ripple through his hair.  Even from this distance, yards away, I can tell his clothes are soaked through from sitting on the ice.  With this bitter cold, something like that isn’t just stupid, it’s deadly. 

_Why is he just sitting up there?_

I approach carefully, minding his apparent reverie.  I stamp my feet against the ice as I approach to be sure that he hears me – his head lifts a little, cocks ever so slightly towards me, so that I can see the featherings of his eyelashes.  Slowly, I lower myself into a kneel beside him and rest my hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey, Jean,” I say, sliding my hand along his shoulders to the back of his neck.  “You still up for going out on a flight with the gang and I?”

Jean grunts.  His eyes search the horizon stubbornly, and he doesn’t so much as glance away from the roiling seas for a second.  It’s my first clue that something is worrying him.  In one of his hands, he holds the skull of an adolescent Speed Stinger.  In the other, he holds a knife.  Without looking away from the ocean, he makes sharp incisions in the surface of the skull, creating an intricate pattern along its forehead. 

Had it been any other situation, I would’ve found it incredible – sexy, even.  Now, I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong. 

“Jean.”  Worry taints the sound of my voice.  “Hey.  You don’t have to go, you know that, right?”

“Mmmmm.”  He drops the knife, his free hand reaching up to cover mine.  His cold thumb swirls distractedly across the back of my hand.  It’s a meager comfort, but the fact that he makes an effort at all lifts my heart, just a little. 

I scoot closer to him, winding my arm over his shoulders, nuzzling into the warmth at his neck.  He winces away from the tip of my cold nose, pressing beneath his jawbone.  But then his gentle chuckle vibrates through my chest, and our hands lace more tightly together.  For the first time, he looks away from the ocean to pull away from my cold nose, and butts our foreheads together so that we’re looking eye to eye. 

“You’re needy,” he murmurs, feigning disapproval.  The smile at his lips and the light in his eyes mars any chances of me taking him seriously. 

I nudge my cold nose against his.  “You’re distracted.”

“Not anymore.” 

“But you were.”  I pull away reluctantly, swallowing.  “Something’s up, isn’t it?”

The troubled, caged look returns immediately to Jean.  His eyes sweep back out to horizon; his hand clutches mine all the tighter. 

“Ymir told me about Krista,” he says simply. 

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline – I’ve heard the story of the runaway princess and Ymir’s offer to protect her myself, but I never imagined how Jean might react to it.  I send a prayer to any gods listening that she gave him a less… _imaginative_ run-through of events.  Even if she didn’t, it doesn’t explain why he’s acting like this. 

“Oh?” I prompt, shuffling closer to him. 

“Yeah.”  Jean bites at his lip, fidgeting nervously with the skull. 

“What’s wrong, Jean?” I ask softly. 

He sighs, shoulders sagging.  “Nothing.”

“That’s dragonshit.”

Jean glances sideways at me.  A strange agony smolders beneath his worry – my hackles rise protectively.  Something is _wrong._   But Jean tears his gaze away, his face becoming a stone mask.  Any emotion in his eyes he shutters carefully, as so not to let me see anything. 

My heart sinks, and Ymir’s words echo in my mind once again. 

Not all hope is lost, though.  He sets the dragon skull down on his lap and rests his hand on my thigh.  His eyes never waver from the horizon, but he leans closer to me, his heat tangible between us despite the cold nip of the air. 

“Smell,” he orders softly.  “Take a deep breath.  Tell me.  What do you smell?”

My eyebrows scrunch together.  “What –”

“Just do it.”  Jean inhales and exhales as an example.  “Breathe deep.”

It’s a puzzling turn of events, but Jean’s certainly put me through much odder.  I turn to face the wind as he had. Taking a deep breath of the wind, I focus on the feel of it in my hair and across the panes of my face –

I snap my eyes open and lean forward, taking another long breath.  A cold fist seizes my heart.  Now that I’m focusing on it, it’s unmistakable, a smell any dragon rider knows. 

“Ash.”  I turn to him.  “ _Dragonfire_ ash.”

Jean nods curtly.  “Yes.”  He looks worriedly off into the distance, the wind throwing his hair back out of his face.  “From the southeast.”

It takes a moment for the meaning of his words to really dawn on me.  When it does, it’s like a punch to the gut.  Sharply, I gasp and train my eyes on the horizon, as if it would help me see any better what lies beyond the great seas. 

“Dreki Kló is that way, isn’t it?” I murmur, glancing sideways at him. 

Jean nods tightly.  He clutches my hand painfully, biting at his lip nervously. 

“Oh, Jean…”  My heart melts at his concern for his friend, a tender smile pulling unwillingly at the corners of my lips. 

“I haven’t heard anything from Krista,” he murmurs, voice quiet.  “She’s usually back by now.”

“Many odd things happened to her while she was out there, Dragon.”  I pull him into my lap, ignoring the wet drag of his clothes against my pants.  “It was an unprecedented trip.  She might’ve been thrown off schedule.”

Jean settles into my lap, reaching the hand not intertwined with mine around to thread through my hair.  His cold fingers feel soothing against my scalp.  Despite his distress, his touch is still so gentle. 

“I don’t like it,” he growls with frustration.  “Something’s wrong.”

I plant a soothing kiss on the back of his neck.  “You don’t know that, Dragon.  There’s a lot of ocean between here and there, and a lot of dragons, too.”

Jean hums, but he doesn’t sound too convinced.  Glumly, he cuddles himself closer into me, pressing his back flat to my chest, grumbling grouchily.  If I rest my chin on his shoulder, I can see his cute, stubborn pout. 

_Sweet Freyja, why do you torture me so?_

“She should’ve sent a letter,” he grouses like a mother hen.  “If something is going on.  She will.  Or.  Or… something’s wrong.”

“Look, Jean,” I sigh patiently, nuzzling into the side of his face, “I’m sure she’s fine.  The wind that carries dragons’ wings always soars faster.  If there’s no word from her by tomorrow…”  I shrug.  “I’ll go with you to investigate, alright?”

Certainly, the only reason he hasn’t taken off to go look for her himself is his general avoidance of anything that doesn’t have scales.  If he’s awkward around his old friends, I’d hate to try and see him get anything done in a trader’s den.  One thing’s for sure – I won’t let him go alone. 

It seems to have been the thing to say.  He relaxes with a sigh, leaning back against my shoulder.  His eyes shut to crescents, and he stares up at the endless blue sky for along moment.  The anxiety slowly seeps from his shoulders – he swallows nervously, and then his gaze flicks to mine. 

Suddenly, a smirk breaks out over his face.  His hand uncurls from my hair and flicks idly at one of the small braid at my temple. 

“Sasha got to you,” he notes with a chuckle. 

“Connie, actually.”  I throw my head back with a little laugh.  “He’s the one that does all of her braids.”

“Your hair is getting long.”  Jean frowns.  “Will you.  Grow it out?  Cut it?”

“Mmmmm, good question,” I hum, considering it.  “I’ll probably let it grow as long as it can, but my mum doesn’t let me in the house if it gets much longer than this.  So she’ll probably shear me so I look like Connie next time I see her.”

“What?”  He wrinkles his nose.  “Why?”

“Oh, Thor if I know.  Something about not having a beard makes me look weird.”

Jean smiles and looks up at me with big, happy eyes.  “You always look weird.”

“Hush, you,” I scold, jabbing his stomach with my thumb.  “I’m going to leave you and fly with the gang by myself if you keep that up.”

“Shit.”  He swivels around to glare at the horizon.  “I’ve got to change.”

I glance down at the wet clothes.  “If you don’t want to freeze, that is,” I joke lightly.  “Come on, Jean, I’ll wait for you to change.”

Nodding, he rises and offers a hand to me.  I take it and he pulls me up effortlessly, then slips his fingers through mine again.  Bumping our shoulders together, he leads me down the ice spike, and into the nest of the Bewilderbeast. 

There is no need for words.  There seldom is, with Jean.  But as we leave this lonely perch, the air thick with ash, I can’t shake the feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, something _needed_ to be said.  And now, it won’t be.

* * *

 

Eren hates to admit it, but Kirschtein’s dragon can fly. 

The hulking thing didn’t look like it could even take off.  It’s broad and muscular, built powerfully, almost too powerfully, like a Gronckle – well, no, not like a Gronckle.  But with the same concept in mind.  It’s got none of the sleek build of a Skrill or Night Fury, but it still flies with a sickening sort of _elegance_. 

Titan growls as the strange dragon does a flip midair above them.  His yellow eyes narrow suspiciously.  Leaning forward, Eren pats his dragon’s muzzle, shooting the Stormcutter the same suspicious glare. 

Armin, sweet Armin, is completely oblivious to their disdain for Kirschtein’s beast. 

“Wow!” he exclaims breathily.  “Wasn’t that incredible, Eren?!  Eydis’ size may stop her from reaching the speed of Orochi, but she’s so agile.  Four wings must mean all the more maneuverability in air – oh, Odin, I hope Jean’ll let me take notes!”

“Take notes if you want, Armin,” Eren mutters beneath his breath. 

“What was that?!” he shouts over the wind. 

“Nothing!” Eren replies innocently. 

As if she’d heard him, the dragon banks sharply left above them with a quick twist of her many wings.  The Stormcutter soars sideways, the line of its wings _vertical_ , but her head is twisted unnaturally so that it remains _horizontal_.  Eren stifles a shudder. 

Perched on the crook of her neck, arms spread wide, is Jean Kirschtein.  The bastard’s pretentious red cloak snaps in the air behind him.  Eren wonders idly if he’s aware how stupid that dragon helmet of his looks.  He’ll have to let him know, next time they’re on the ground. 

Armin seems to disagree.  He gasps in delight, tightening his grip around Eren’s middle to lean forward and get a better view. 

Like an ebony arrow, Orochi shoots over their heads.  The menacing whistle of a Night Fury fills the sky, the whistle that once made grown men cower and babies cry, the whistle that put fear in even the bravest of Vikings’ hearts.  And, echoing a bit after, loud, wholesome, if a bit crazy, laughter. 

When they’re flying as quick as they are, Orochi’s dark scales seem to absorb the light.  The dragon pulls out of his dive with a flick of his sleek wings.  He twists like a length of ribbon in the wind, twirling around and around and around – just watching them, Eren starts to feel dizzy. 

“Holy shit, that’s some flying,” he whistles, watching in awe as Orochi transfers from his wild spins effortlessly into a nosedive.  The dragon streaks past them with a shrill whistle at insane speeds. 

“How don’t they break their necks?” Armin wonders after Orochi snaps out of the dive at the last possible second, already beginning to rapidly climb in elevation.  Marco’s jubilant laughter echoes across the ocean. 

“I have no fucking clue.”  Eren pauses as the Night Fury shoots a joyful purple fireball out in front of them, and then resumes speaking after its deafening boom ends.  “Last time I rode with Marco, I thought for sure I was going to die.  And we weren’t even going _half_ that fast.”

Their conversation lulls for a few seconds, and they both watch the rider and dragon.  The pair drifts a little over a hundred yards to their left, a little beneath them, too far to hear over the wind.  Slow for once, Orochi glides upwards levelly.  Marco throws back his one arm and lets the wind roll over him.  He looks incredibly peaceful, eyes shut and smile wide. 

The aerodynamic Night Fury moves steadily upwards, gliding up faster than old Titan ever could.  Their movements are restricted by the presence of the flock, but above the wings of Eydis, the sky is theirs to reign.  Marco urges his dragon up above them, and then Orochi banks neatly right.  His shadow flutters across Titan’s wings. 

“I wonder if we look as pretty in the air as Orochi does,” Armin says. 

Eren snorts.  “I doubt it.”  He pats Titan’s head affectionately.  “My boy’s the most loyal bastard north of the Grimtooth Bay, but he’s too big to be pretty.”

“Well, Eydis is pretty,” Armin says thoughtfully.  “Why can’t Titan be?”

Upon hearing her name, the Stormcutter twists her head around owlishly and releases a reverberating rumble that shakes the sky.  The plates of her nose rattle a strange tune, and her big yellow eyes . 

“She says thank you!” Kirschtein calls once the noise silences, waving a hand above his head.  His dragon snorts in agreement. 

Armin lifts a hand shyly.  “Hi, Eydis!”

Eydis rumbles again, but swivels her head around as if growing disinterested with them both.

“Thor’s knickers, that’s a strange noise,” he grumbles, shooting Kirschtein a contempt glance. 

Before he can snap at Kirschtein, Titan gives a strange buck.  He gurgles with alarm, a shudder running down his back.  Immediately, Eren’s hands go to his forehead.  He strokes his scales and whispers calmingly. 

“Is he okay?” Armin asks, tentatively touching Titan’s scales. 

“He should be,” Eren assures him, frowning down at his strong old boy.  “He’d be a lot better if weird-ass dragons didn’t make weird-ass noises!”

Armin swats at his shoulder and says, “She’s a beautiful dragon, she makes beautiful noises!  Don’t tease her!”

“And a chest cavity large enough to support such loud noises,” adds another voice.  “Really, her lungs are amazing.”

Eren nearly launches himself off Titan in surprise.  He whirls around in the saddle, eyes wide, scarcely able to believe his ears.  He hears Armin’s soft gasp, but when he turns in the saddle and sees the speaker, he is utterly unprepared for what he sees. 

“Marco?!” he yelps.  “What the – what the fuck?!  How’re you – the shit?!”

The Viking only grins sheepishly and shrugs.  He’s crouched between the spines of Titan’s back, his one hand bracing his body weight, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the muscles of his back.  The daring twinkle in his eyes and his new armor give him an outlandishly handsome look.  It isn’t difficult to see what Armin sees in him. 

“I’ve picked up a few tricks,” Marco says, smiling goofily.  “I’ll show you in a second.”

“What new tricks?” Armin asks, sounding fascinated. 

The dragon rider giggles.  “Patience, Armin, you’ll see.  I just wanted to see how you guys are holding up – is Titan doing okay?  He doesn’t seem all that…”  Marco trails off and shrugs. 

A feeling of pity invades Eren’s heart.  “I think it might be the Stormcutter – she’s kind of encroaching on his space a bit, I think, and he doesn’t really like her in the first place.” 

Marco nods curtly.  “Alright, I’ll tell Jean that.  I think he’s probably trying to fly close enough to talk?  I’m not sure.  He _is_ close.”

“Way too close,” Eren harrumphs, stroking Titan’s horns indignantly.    

“Holy shit, man!” 

“Yeah, what the fuck!”

Sasha and Connie appear out of nowhere, flanking Titan.  Linnie and Chusi are much closer to his poor Nightmare than Eydis, but after years of flying alongside the chucklefuck squad, Titan’s unfortunately used to their presence.  Riders and dragons alike gawk at Marco, evidently having witnessed whatever happened between Marco being on Orochi and Marco being on Titan. 

“How the fuck did you do that?” Sasha demands in a feigned whisper. 

Marco beams.  “Jean taught me!”

“Jean taught you how to be a fucking badass?”  Connie snorts incredulously.  “That trick seemed a little above his paygrade, don’t you think?”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Armin inquires.  “What’d Marco do?”

Marco beams, and it’s as much a ray of sunshine like the light bathing them now.  Before the chucklefucks can comment, he pushes up with his one arm, rising slowly onto his two legs – and remarkably, he _stands_.  He _stands_ on Titan’s back. 

Shifting his balance with the flow of the updrafts beneath the dragon’s wings, steadying himself with one arm, an air of calm about him.  A more devilish look flashes in his eyes for a split second, and with an excited whoop, Marco walks _across Titan’s wing_ and _jumps off the end._

“Shitting Loki!” Eren whispers. 

He lands effortlessly on Linnie and Chusi’s wing, skipping across before it can buckle beneath his weight.  Sasha and Connie release harmonized cries of astonishment.  Somehow, Marco stands against the wind. 

But he doesn’t stop – he keeps running across Linnie and Chusi’s back, dashing across the other wing.  And then he jumps into the empty air. 

“Marco!” Armin yelps. 

Out of nowhere comes the Night Fury’s whistle.  Orochi streaks past before Marco falls a dozen feet, and his rider disappears with him.  Eren snaps his head back to watch them, mouth falling open.  Orochi is a spot against the sun. 

“What the shit!” Sasha cries joyfully. 

“He walked across Titan’s wing,” Armin breathes in astonishment.  “And Linnie’s…  And Chusi’s…  He was… walking across _dragons_?”

Connie whoops and claps his hands above his head in a gesture of excitement.  “Fuck, man, I have to fucking know how he pulled that shit off!”

“Look, he’s coming back around,” Eren notes, urging Titan faster.  “Let’s ask him.”

But before he can align his dragon alongside the Night Fury, Marco springs off its back and lands on top of Eydis.  _What the shit?!_ The boy steadies himself for only half a beat, and then runs up the dragon’s spine.  He flings himself at Jean, catching the rider around the waist and knocking them both off Eydis’ neck. 

Armin gasps in horror, his little arms squeezing the air right out of Eren.  Seeing Marco falling, spinning helplessly in the air, plummeting down to an unforgiving ocean – his gut lurches painfully, constricting with fear.  In his mind’s eye, Eren can’t see anything but Marco’s lifeless body, ripped apart by the wretched Boneknapper. 

“Help them!” Armin whispers into his ear, voice faint with fear. 

Eren doesn’t waste a second.

“Titan, dive!” he thunders, ducking against his dragon’s neck.  Titan responds immediately, as if he too can’t get the past out of his mind – roaring, he tucks his wings by his side and arches his spine.  As an afterthought, Eren wraps one hand around and clutches Armin tighter to him – the winds pick up a second after, so strong and furious that the boy would undoubtedly be thrown off otherwise. 

Titan dives hard, long, and _fast_ , faster than he usually does – Eren’s heart pounds with the exhilaration of gravity and the wind fighting against them, the feel of the cold droplets beading across his face and being blown off his cheeks. 

But someone else is diving faster.  A telltale whistle screams in his ears, and a blur shoots past him.  The Night Fury scoops them both out of the air and snaps its wings out, whizzing across the surface of the ocean, blowing up surf around it.  Cursing, Eren yanks back on his dragon’s horns, pulling him out of the dive. 

Titan roars, the gravity around them yanking painfully.  Armin lets loose a small yelp, making Eren’s heart throb.  The dragon levels out with difficulty, beating his wings powerfully to restore them to a natural flight pattern.  Eren curses like a sailor as he frantically adjusts his weight, trying to help his dragon out.

“Hey, nice going, Jaeger!” Connie calls, snickering. 

“Shut the fuck up, Baldie!”

“Don’t be fucking rude!”

“Eren, Armin!”  Mikasa drifts into his line of view, still far enough to keep Titan safe from her Skrill.  “Are you alright?”

Eren twists around in his saddle to look at Armin.  “Are you okay?” he asks softly. 

Armin’s fluffy blonde hair is sticking up every which way, and tear marks streak from the corners of his eyes.  But he’s grinning, and his eyes are sparkling. 

“Yeah, yeah – neck hurts a bit, but wow, who even cares, that was so fun!” Armin babbles.  “Oh, Odin’s underpants, I didn’t think we’d make it in time, but that was _so incredible_ – can we do stuff like that more often?”

Chuckling, Eren shoots Mikasa a thumbs up.  “Yeah, we’re fine!”

Titan bellows petulantly, snorting his nostrils.  Hiding a smile, Eren leans forward and strokes the skin between his horns. 

“And you, Titan?” he asks patronizingly.  “Is your fat lizard ass okay?”

The silly dragon snorts, satisfied, and blows a happy smoke ring to let Eren know that he’s completely fine, like he didn’t already know his dragon was being a fucking drama queen.  He pats Titan and rolls his eyes up to the sky. 

“He’s so cute,” Armin giggles. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Eren mutters, bowing to scratch Titan in a sweet spot beneath his jawbone.  His dragon moans delightedly and presses into his touch. 

“Guys!” 

Marco’s distant voice echoes through the empty sky like the ring of a bell.  Silently, Orochi glides up to them, coming to an abrupt halt nearby.  With a Night Fury’s uncanny ability, the dragon hovers with swift flaps of his black wings, bellowing at Titan.  His Nightmare bellows back congenially and begins to make tight circles around the smaller dragon. 

“Hey, is everyone okay?” Marco calls, concern softening his features.  “You guys pulled kind of quick out of that dive.”

He sits up in his saddle, weight carefully balanced parallel to the dragon’s spine, one hand braced powerfully between his earflaps.  Something about his confident, careful stance screams _dragon rider_ – the best of the best, Marco’s always been.  Jean, on the other hand… he’s clinging to Marco desperately, sliding down the slope of Orochi’s back, and _whimpering_ , if Eren’s ears don’t deceive him. 

Smirking, he flashes a beatific grin at Marco.  “We’re perfect!  Thanks for asking!”

“That was some amazing flying by Orochi!” Armin pipes up.  “I didn’t even see him at first!”

“Bet Jean likes all that flying,” Eren says smugly. 

He can’t see Jean’s face through his helmet, but he’d bet his right leg that glance the bastard just shot him was dirty as hell. 

“He’s even faster without any weight,” Marco says proudly, ignoring Eren.  “Can’t reach full speed with even one passenger.  Feels like I hold him back sometimes.”

“Night Furies are magnificent,” Armin breathes in awe. 

“Thanks, Armin,” Marco says with a smile.  “He gets antsy if he stays in one place for too long, though, so – anything you guys need?”

“Nope!”  Eren grins wickedly.  “Show Kirschtein what your dragon can do, Bodt!”

Sasha howls her agreement, an unholy sound with a vague resemblance to her family’s war cry.  Anyone would be terrified by the sound of it.  But Jean – the fucker looks terrified, lunging at Marco and grabbing helplessly at anything sturdy he can get his hands on. 

“No, no, no, no – no, no,” Kirschtein stammers.  “Marco, no!”

“If you’re sure, then,” Marco says cheerfully, ignoring his boyfriend with that same devilish glint in his eye. 

“What?!” he all but shrieks.  “No, no, no!  Marco –”

“Get out of here, bud,” Eren insists, flicking his hand dismissively, unable to help his massive grin. 

“Marco, _Marco_ , no no no _no no no –_ ”

“ _Orochi!_ ” Marco thunders.  The dragon roars in response, flicking its tail impatiently, quivering and snarling with apprehension.  Excitement sparkles in his bright green eyes. 

“ _Marco, no, Marco, NO NO NO –_ ”

“GO!”

“ _MARCO, NO, FUCK, NO, I FUCKING HATE –_ ”

The rest of his shout is lost in the wind. 

Orochi dives straight down, hard and fast, Marco’s bubbling laughter echoing out after him.  Grinning, Eren leans over Titan’s neck to watch them and their vertical plummet.  The whistle begins to build, growing louder and louder, and with it, the distinctive sound of a terrified shriek, building and building. 

The Stormcutter gurgles a question down at them, looking mildly alarmed.  But she doesn’t do anything but watch her banshee of a rider with a look of amusement. 

“Is he going to be alright?” Armin asks, equally concerned. 

At the last possible second, the Night Fury snaps sideways, narrowly missing colliding with the surface of the ocean.  He moves like a shadow across the water, quicker than death and lightning both.  The sound of Jean’s screaming becomes hysterical sobbing. 

“He’ll be fine,” Eren assures Armin with a dismissive gesture. 

He can feel the dubiousness emanating through his armor from the other boy as they watch Orochi spiral and dip, twirling through the air like a goddamned ribbon in the wind.  It’s dizzying just _watching_ the fluid movements of the Night Fury, even without the bastard’s shrieking. 

“He _will be_ ,” Eren insists.  “It’s his first Night Fury flight.  Don’t tell anyone, but I was the same.”

Kirschtein’s screaming reaches another new octave – a dismissive glance towards the Night Fury reveals they’re now flying upside-down at the same neckbreaking speed.  They move so fast that to reach down and trail their fingers through the water would snap their backs like brittle twigs, so fast there is no time to do anything but hold on for dear life. 

“…Really?” Armin asks skeptically, listening to Kirschtein’s girly screaming. 

“Yeah, believe it or not,” Eren chuckles, smiling.  “But I wouldn’t get too worried.  Bodt always starts out like that – I think he secretly likes people to shit their pants.”

“Starts out?”  Armin pokes his head over Eren’s shoulder.  “What happens next?”

In answer, Eren waves a hand towards the pair – Orochi, banking through a fluffy white cloud, his black wings spread wide, and on his back, his riders.  Those few seconds, those careful moments, between the snapping turns and whistling dives and tricks so deadly a hair out of place would be fatal, there is this feeling. 

A feeling of being small and fragile and exposed so completely to everything trying to tear you apart, defenseless and weak and so far out of your element you can do absolutely nothing. 

And the feeling of existing, of _living_ , all the same. 

Vulnerable, weak, and at the same time, completely untouchable. 

Jean’s screams break apart slowly, becoming less a terrified wail, and more wild, victorious cries, fierce declarations to the sky, to the winds, to it all that he’s still _fucking alive_ – giddy whoops, happy, stuttering, sobbing laughter, growing fuller and heartier and louder until it booms through the sky alongside Marco’s, every bit as filled with joy and wonder. 

“THAT WAS AMAZING!”

Like a dragon himself, Marco roars more than bellows his hearty agreement.  Orochi’s plasma blast screams through the air and explodes in a bright burst in front of them, but Kirschtein doesn’t seem bothered by it anymore.  The asshole’s laughing like a fool, no longer clutching Marco tightly, throwing his head back and enjoying himself. 

“It looks like fun,” Armin muses, “but I don’t think I’d ever be able to do it myself.”

“Yeah, it takes balls,” Eren says offhandedly.  He begrudgingly admits in his own mind that Jean’s doing _alright_ – it took him a few more stunts before he felt the thrill of it. 

“I don’t think I’d ever do it,” Armin repeats quietly.  “It looks a little bit too… much for me.”

Eren reaches back and pats Armin’s thigh awkwardly.  “No shame in that.  I think we’ve got enough crazy in our party, anyway.”

A second later, Sasha and Connie prove his point excellently by starting a guttural chant of “LOOPS, LOOPS, LOOPS, LOOPS!”  Their dragons go nuts, responding to their riders’ levels of excitement, and Linnie spews a great belch of noxious gas into the air.  The green gas trails behind them as they fly, and Eren prays to good Odin that Chusi doesn’t accidentally light Sasha and Connie both up with her fire. 

“You’d think they actually _wanted_ Jean and Marco to die,” Armin says in disbelief. 

“Yeah, well.”  Eren watches Marco cave to their demands with a broad grin.  “You’d think Jean and Marco _wanted_ to be killed.”

Orochi dips in the sky and plunges down into a steep loop, twisting his body and throwing his riders against the wind.  Kirschtein’s shrieking starts back up again, louder than before, perhaps not as terrified, but just as annoying.  Lucky for him, Marco’s laughter softens Eren’s temper enough to excuse the annoyance. 

“At least they’re having fun,” Armin chuckles warmly, not remotely perturbed by Kirschtein’s howling. 

Eren pats his knee again.  “Sorry I can’t take you on a death ride through the clouds.”

“Don’t be.”  His arms wind back around Eren, warm and enveloping, and he presses his face into Eren’s shoulder blade.  “I’m perfectly happy traveling at sane speeds with you and Titan.”

At his name, Titan rumbles affectionately, letting out a puff of content smoke. 

An unsuppressable smile perks at the corners of Eren’s mouth.  Feeling giddy, he covers Armin’s skinny arms with one of his own and leans backwards into his touch.  A sense of great calm descends on him, and he watches the frolicking of the dragons with more a sense of ease than before. 

Orochi, Marco, and Jean still twist and writhe through maddeningly quick and dangerous maneuvers over the sea, narrowly missing death with each dive.  The sound of their subsequent terror and joy echoes across the ocean.  Above them, Sasha and Connie jeer and suggest wild tricks for the Night Fury to try next atop their overexcited dragon.  Even further above, the quiet Stormcutter glides, watching protectively as the small black dragon darts in and out of her shadow. 

Far, far in the sky, beyond even where clouds go, soars Mikasa and Sindri.  The thunder of the lightning from Sindri’s wings claps distantly, drowned out by joyful cacophony of Vikings at play. 

And, of course, there is the three of them – Titan, Eren, and Armin, caught in a slice of bliss as they drift through the afternoon clouds. 

“Eren?” Armin murmurs, wrapping his arms around Eren’s middle. 

“Hmmm?”

“We should go flying more often.  Back on Berk, I mean.”

Eren grins and squeezes Armin’s hand gently. 

“I’d like that, Armin.  I’d really, really like that.”

* * *

 

“Bulregard?”

Her voice quivers pathetically.  She hates it, she hates that she sounds that way, but she can’t help it.  Mina peers around the dark trash piles, searching for the flash of his yellow eyes. 

The dragon creeps cautiously out from behind a stack of fish bones, sniffing the air curiously.  He pauses once he sees her, staring at her face for a long moment with a strange sort of look in her eyes.  Breathing raggedly, she rubs at her cheek with the back of her hand, appalled by the wetness there. 

“Yeah, sorry,” she says weakly.  “I must look like a mess…”

He takes a big, loud sniff of the air. 

“It’s just…”  A brittle sort of laugh tears from her scratchy throat.  “He’s _alive_ , Bulregard.  Thor’s great hammer, Marco’s alive.”

The floodgates open again, and Mina cries happily into the palm of her hand, hiccupping pathetic little laughs. 

There is a sudden sound of clattering bones, of heavy feet thumping quickly against the earth, and then she feels the warmth puff of Bulregard’s breath on her cheek.  He rumbles inquisitively and nudges his nose against her forehead, nibbles gently at a loose strand of hair.  Obscene gentleness shines in his yellow eyes. 

Choking on her sob, she throws her arms around the dragon’s scrawny neck, clutching him close.  He tucks his chin against her back, almost as if trying to hug her, too. 

“He’s alive, Bul,” Mina whispers.  “Marco’s alive.  And hes… he’s coming home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow!!! Sorry for taking so long to update, I've really been so bogged down by schoolwork it's been terrible... But here's a chapter at long last! 
> 
> For those who still are reading this: thank you so much. Stick with me please, I'll get the next chapter up as soon as I can. 
> 
> SIGNIFICANT DRAGONS IN THIS CHAPTER  
> -[Stormcutter](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Stormcutter)  
> -[Monstrous Nightmare](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Monstrous_Nightmare_\(Franchise\))  
> -[Night Fury](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Night_Fury)  
> -[Deadly Nadder](http://howtotrainyourdragon.wikia.com/wiki/Deadly_Nadder_\(Franchise\))  
> Any questions? Please ask, I'll be more than happy to answer!!

**Author's Note:**

> ...So? How'd you like that? Please tell me in the comments!
> 
> I've got a [tumblr](http://do-not-go-gentl.tumblr.com/) if you wanna check that out


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